The Wyvern Witcher - Chapter 1: Grim Up North
by B171189
Summary: Urick is a Witcher hailing from the Provinces: Lands conquered by the mighty Nilfgaardian Empire on the South of the Continent, coming to the free North in search of pleasure, adventure, and fortune... Only to find the exact opposite of what he hoped. Soon, his struggles become less about saving people from monsters, and more about saving himself from them - monsters and men alike.
1. Stranger in a strange land

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 **The Wyvern Witcher**

 **Story Arc One: Grim Up North**

 **Chapter 1: Stranger in a strange land**

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Twenty-seven days! " _Twenty-seven FUCKING days!_ " He repeated in his head in anger. " _Well… I guess its twenty-eight FUCKING days now, since its past twelve in the night._ " He corrected himself internally, the right side of his lips forming something that could have been called a smile – if complete disgust, buildup anger, and alienation of the kind that others treat you as if you had the plaque, were feelings that were supposed to make one smile, that's what Urick's 'smile' would have been. He was in the North for that long…

AND HE HATED IT.

He hated the never-ending swamps and marshlands crawling with every kind of revolting filth he ever had the misfortune to read about in the School of the Wyvern's library. He hated the dark, foreboding forests where the stench of death was lingering so strongly that even an ordinary human could of have smelled it before he or she even enter it proper. He hated that every three-hundred miles he and Hlaith covered almost always ended up in a village with even more dim-witted, superstitious and violent 'people' than the previous one. He hated the non-stop swearing, open hostility, constant vulgarity, blatant hypocrisy, uninhibited racism, and pretty much everything that the nordlings were so proud of. He also hated that village, and he hated that inn.

"Your drink." The waitress crudely slammed the tankard on the table as she spoke, spilling some of its contents on it, and turned to leave, rather hastily.

Before she took her third step however Urick spoke "Bring me one–no two, two more." He weighted his words carefully as not to betray his southern accent. After the last time he was unceremoniously chased away by a mob of angry peasants armed with torches and axes -the 'reward'- for taking care of the Hydra that terrorized them in the swamps in Angren, he made sure not to make his status as a citizen of the Imperial Provinces of Nilfgaard immediately apparent to the locals… _to put it into civilized enough terms._

The waitress shot a condescending look at him and went on her merry way. Her face was pretty enough but that attitude of hers was really not at all endearing… _Not that Urick would've said no to a passionate night with her if she was willing…_ He pushed those useless thoughts away and focused on his drink.

This Cintrian Faro should be tasteful enough, he thought -… hoped -… said to himself many times as he sniffed. Trying to ignore the undisputed fact that it smelled vile and looked suspiciously like urine…

He drank it anyway.

It was as distasteful as he expected, but at least, it wasn't horse piss, he would know, he had been served that as well. It's not like he drinks because he likes the taste anyway – all alcoholic beverages tasted pretty much the same in the Northern Realms -namely foul- compared to those in the Provinces. He drank so that he can fall asleep faster, which his mutations didn't make any easier despite the fact that since coming to the North he started drinking more heavily, mostly because he had a hard time adjusting to the new, and not-so-welcoming environment. Higher tolerance to toxicity, including inebriation, was definitely not a blessing at all if you live in these uncivilized lands he realized.

The only other patrons, sitting in the other end of the inn, occasionally glared at him – _like right now!_ Urick didn't like their faces, especially the one with the horseshoe mustache that supposedly was a trend among nordlings. He didn't like that trend either, he much preferred the Imperial styles, though he himself went clean-shaved like most of his southern brethren, as facial hair (beards especially) were considered hard on the eyes to Nilfgaardians, and you would find at least one trueborn in any land under the Empire's control, but since coming here he allowed his facial hair to grow more to better blend in, to no avail. Urick avoided their hostile looks for the most part, but he was absolutely sure that that would make no difference in a few hours, _or minutes, or even seconds!_ Losing his silver sword on that 'Leshen' contract on that shitty town Weeping Willow has been proved a huge loss since there wasn't a blacksmith here or in the last three settlements he passed by. Thankfully, he still had his steel one, resting by the right side of him in the bench, should–when, he corrected, things come to worse, he also kept his skinning knife on his person at all times, just to be sure, and the leather compartment on his left leg stored Tawny Owl, Blizzard… and Scarlet Fury… " _A bit of an overkill that one, but still, better safe than sorry._ "

When he came to this inn there were two more occupied tables, but the patrons of the first one immediately stood and left as soon as his bottom touched the wood, and the ones on the other one followed soon after, the only ones that stayed were the three thuggish-looking ones in the second to last table to the right, and that didn't bode well. Urick had learned his lesson by now. " _Imagine if I didn't actually sit on the last table to the far left side!_ " He thought dejectedly, it didn't help that he chose the most sizable side exactly because he didn't actually want to cause any trouble again, as each time he went at an inn -not to stay, just to drink- it always ended up in a fight, with fists, or with something else. " _Barbarians every single one of them…_ " He thought dejectedly.

 _"Enjoy your freedom, now that you have it, nordlings. Because my countrymen will eventually come for you all, even if it takes years or decades, our armies WILL return…"_ Making disturbing thoughts has become quite a habit these past few days. Urick couldn't remember anymore why he averted his eyes in shame each time he spotted new shipments of captured Nordling slaves back in the Provinces. He judged without experiencing these people firsthand, foolishly feeling sorry for them. He was always naïve. _"They'll raze your homes to the ground! Trample your fields! Take everything you have, no matter how small: toys, hair, pearls, spoons, even your rotten teeth! They'll ransack your temples and crucify your priests, just outside as an example! Enslave every last one of you. Break your wills! Till the only thing you know how to tell in your language will be "Yes master" with the head held low! The men will hang on poles! And every 'badass' that his last words will be some variation of "Plough yourself Nilfgaardian" will be tortured, his tongue will be cut off, his balls chopped, and then fed to dogs! The women the-"_ –– "Hey, freak!" The innkeeper barked from behind the counter suddenly, interrupting his train of thought.

Urick's turn his head to look at the man, to his own displeasure. The mere sight of him forced the Witcher's emotionless mask to break and express disgust. The innkeeper was tall, fat, reeked of beer, had yellow teeth, and was hairy everywhere in his body besides his head, which shape reminded the Witcher of a phallus… Urick started suspecting that this comparison was due to his lack of sexual activity, which added to his bad mood.

"De fuck's dat face?!" The innkeeper slammed his right hand on the counter as he barked again, hard enough that one of the bottles resting on it started shaking till it reached the edge, and fell on the floor. Looking at it's broken shards and stamp, not to mention the unforgettably pleasurable aroma that stood out even amidst the miasma of stale alcohol that hung around in the air, Urick recognized the wasted alcoholic beverage as the White Wolf – a relatively new and expensive wine made in the duchy of Toussaint, said to be named by the Witcher hero Gerald of Rivia himself. Urick could never forget its smell or the taste. " _Such a waste_ " he thought, but "Oops" he said.

"Fuck! Look what ya made me do!" The innkeeper's ugly face became red with anger, Urick could swear he almost saw froth coming out of his mouth, and he was completely sure it wasn't due to him gulping down beer, the shape of his head coupled with it painted a funny image in the Witcher's mind. A giggle escaped his mouth, he just couldn't help it.

"Ya laugh? LAUGH! Ya fucking laughing at me?! Ye gonna pay for dis from yer own pockets ye brigand, ye damn mutant! Fiooonaaaa! Get yer arse 'ere an clean dis damn mezz!" The innkeeper started panting when he was done screaming his lungs out, everyone in a range of three miles, and something, should of have heard him. They did. The Witcher heard voices outside complaining about the noise and that they wanted to sleep, the stupid mat that he had the misfortune to come across when he first came by the village was also barking. The innkeeper's hysterics coupled with his appearance and temperament would have made Urick burst out laughing in most cases…

But not in this one. "Hey, what the d'yaebl?!" He stood up "Why pay for a bottle of wine I didn't even order? You broke it, so you-" –– "SHUT DE FUCK UP!" The innkeeper's loud screaming drowned Urick's protests. "Ye've de fucking nerve to talk aback after ya losing me me patrons?!" He continued shouting, making weird gestures as well "Angus an Haren each take three snapses 'efore go back to them homes to plough der daughters, but because ye came about, dey left wit only one! I fucking lost over two-hundred orens cause of ya, ya fuckard! Fiooonaaaa! Ain't ya fucking heard me?!"

"Aright, aright." The waitress answered, somewhat tired, as she was picking the half-full/half-empty tankards from the table that the last patrons have left before they 'excused' themselves. "I'll come, just…" she placed the disc on the table, bending a little, she put both her hands on it to balance herself, she took two deep breaths "Just give me a moment." She finally said after a while, placing her hand in her abdomen, and later in her mouth, these gestures gave the impression that she was suppressing the urge to vomit. She was pale and didn't seem well, she started panting, and sweating… _And the only thing that Urick could think while looking at her now was how much he wanted to fuck her._ It was difficult not to make indecent thoughts about most of the waitresses and barmaids in the Northern Kingdoms since most of the time they were under twenty-five -this one couldn't be over twenty-two- with their dresses often offering a generous view of their 'ample charms' to patrons, which was obviously the intent. And this one was really 'charming' he had to admit: She was of average height and weight, with unkempt light brown hair that reached to her shoulders, matching eyes with thick eyebrows, an attractive if plain face, and a really, really nice, busty body – her drenching in her own sweat left absolutely nothing to the imagination, she wasn't wearing a bra even… The Witcher averted his eyes and sat down, lustful thoughts and a raging erection won't make things easier for him at this hour.

"Whad? Whad?! Did ya fell ill or did some fuckard gat ya wid child ya ho? Well too bad! You ain't going nowhere till we've done an empty! An tomorrow don't ya dare…" the innkeeper swallowed, deeply, before continuing "…come." He finally said "Yes! Don't ya dare come! Nor after tomorrow! Or de day after! I don wanna get any illness in case ya've gat any!" The innkeeper's decibels were in considerably lowered volume, if he didn't know better Urick would of have thought that he actually gave a damn about the waitresses' wellbeing. He probably just imagined it, not that he cared thought. He just wanted his drink, preferably sooner rather than later.

"Witchfucker!" The innkeeper barked again, he quite obviously couldn't speak like an ordinary… " _Person_ ", Urick cringed at his own thought. "Ya finished de last of our Cintrian Faro so we gonna serve ya Temerian Rye. Dis is still bloody Temeria after all." He continued, at least he wasn't screaming his lungs out much this time around.

"YA HEARD ME?!" The innkeeper screamed his lungs out again.

The Witcher cursed at himself internally. _He also cursed at the fucking Northern Realms, at the cock-headed innkeeper, at that stupid dog outside, at the shitty Weeping Willow, at all of damned Ysgith, at this village that he didn't know nor bothered to learn its name, at the next village because he knew it was going to be shit as well, at every feline in the world, at every Grave Hag, at every Water Hag, and at every Sorceress in existence_ as he was gulping down the 'Cintrian Faro', _intending to finish it in a single round!_

Once the tankard was empty the Witcher slammed it loudly on the table immediately, frowning all the while. He wiped out the last traces of beer from his mouth with the back of his left hand and then leaned back till his back was touching the wooden wall behind him, he put his arms tightly across his chest and held his head low. He was angry but knew there was no point in complaining, and that he won't find justice here or anywhere else in these barbarous lands. " _Insane Troll logic is apparently the norm here it seems._ " The Witcher thought, teeth clenching under his tightly sealed lips. There wasn't anyone here to dispense justice anyway. No guardsmen working for a local lord were around or anything, and even if there was one in the region, which this village fell under his jurisdiction, he probably had no idea about it. This was a small and remote village after all. Urick must of have had counted fifteen huts, more or less–most likely less, It was surprising there was even an inn in this village that actually had rooms to lend… well, one room anyway. He should probably consider himself lucky that it was available, and that he had the money to pay for it, his own drinks, and the broken White Wolf. It was true that his expenses have considerably been reduced since coming here, as it was way easier to stock up on alchemical ingredients – to either sell or brew potions with. In comparison to the South, the North was a witcher's treasure trove when it came to that he had to admit, and actually looked forward to explore more of nature's gifts here, as well as the Conjunction's, bring some samples back to the Wyvern's Keep. Not to mention there was no lack of gangs of outlaws littering it, that for some reason thinking attacking a witcher is a good idea, his purse always felt a little bit heavier after each such event.

Urick raised his head only to see that the waitress had sat down on the very table she was taking care off just moments ago to catch her own breath, one could say literally as she seemed to have difficulties breathing, panting heavily, eyes closed, and sweating heavily… "I just want to tear that dress to pieces and fuck you on that table till morning." He said in a whisper–less than a whisper, as he rested his head on his left fist. The fact that the waitress was facing his way wasn't helping, slightly bend, with her breasts touching the table, so drenched in sweat that her nipples were visible under her dress. " _I soooo want to bite those nipples…_ " His imagination ran wild, even if his face didn't show it.

The waitress opened her eyes slightly once she seemed a little bit better, then completely, as she caught Urick staring at her.

The Witcher didn't avert his eyes this time around. He didn't want to. Since coming to the North it has been nothing but abuse (both physical and verbal), cheating, and attempts at his life _– by the ones he protected even!_ He knew he won't bed her as her behavior eirlier made abundantly clear to him that she despised his kind. _But a damn pleasurable sight was the least he could ask for!_

The waitress obviously didn't agree. She placed the last tankard that was left on the table on the disk, with a sour expression and rather aggressive movements, stood up, picked up the piece of cloth that was on the disc, and started wiping the table with it, purposely facing away from him with her back turned.

" _And they say that once a Witcher comes around, "Hide your women!" because he'll seduced them. Yeah, right. I'm going to punch the lights out of the next idiot who spout such rubbish._ " Urick sighed, heavily.

"Hey, Fiona" The patron right of the one Urick didn't like said. That one was bald and fat, but nothing close to innkeeper's bulk, he was also much shorter "Bring us another round." He gestured.

"Aright." Fiona answered, her voice was low. She took her disc as she finished, and went by the counter to place it. "Boss, another three of…" her voice trailed.

"Temerian Rye!" The innkeeper completed her sentence in his signature loud volume "Dat's all douse shitebirds would 'ave." He bended slightly forward and turn his head to the left towards the patrons "Yer happy, ya shitebirds?!"

The patrons all nodded and agreed.

The innkeeper went then to the room behind the counter, probably to fetch the drinks. As soon as he was gone, the unpleasant-looking patrons make equally unpleasant faces, some of them swore softly as well, but of course as a mutant, Urick could hear them. The Witcher made a pleasant face though, as he would finally have his much-needed medicine.

After a few minutes passed, the waitress took her disc in her hands and walked towards the thuggish patrons.

As she stretched her arm to pick the bald one's tankard however, he grabbed her suddenly and force her to his own knees, her disc fell on the wooden floor, sideways, and rolled all the way down to the other side of the inn until it hit the wall and landed flat right beside Urick. The Witcher's eyes widened slightly in surprise, looking at it now he saw that the disc had flower pattern.

"Just look at little Fiona, all grown up." The bald one said in a tone that implied familiarity. He started fondling the waitress' breasts.

The patron that was facing back from Urick stood up and went closer "Aye" he said as he stood at the waitresses' right. Looking at his full profile now the Witcher thought himself lucky that he didn't took a glimpse at his face any earlier. The man's entire nose was missing. "Like yesterday I remember" he continued and just like his fellow started fondling her as well "When you were six and scattering about, taking rolls down the piles of hay, showing your panty to us all, shameless since then." He laughed at the end and started pulling her skirt upwards, slowly revealing a pair of shapely legs as well, much to the Witcher's pleasure.

Apparently Urick wasn't the only one desperate to get his cock wet. It passed through his mind to go help the waitress but ignored that idea as quickly as it came to him. _These weren't Imperial lands._ But more importantly he wasn't so foolish to think that by 'saving' her he would be rewarded with her spreading her legs wide for him, _unfortunately._ As they say back home 'In the North, no good deed ever goes unpunished.' so he decided to simply sit where he was and enjoy the show, and make use of any inspiring images to 'sharpen his sword' later if this Temerian Rye proved inefficient on its intended purpose.

The waitress acted as if she was uncomfortable. "Please, I am… I am working now, I…" despite her words she didn't exactly put much effort into pulling herself away from them, but then again she seemed unwell, and if those men were regulars then they probably did that every night. Her pathetically weak protests didn't dissuade the perverted patrons in the slightest.

The mustached one came closer, clearly intending to feel her as well. They pushed her bodice down, confirming the Witcher's original estimation of the young woman's assets: a beautiful pair of really well-developed round breasts that could make even a Sorceress green with envy.

"Wait… what are you do- Ah!" The waitresses' second attempt at a 'protest' was interrupted as the bald one started suckling at her left breast and replaced with a groan. Urick could see that her right nipple was hard already.

To the Witcher's eyes' pleasure the noseless man had pushed her skirt completely up, generously revealing her underwear to him. He started suckling at her right breast.

They moved her a little closer to the center of the bench, still on the bald one's knees, so that all three of them could have an easier time feeling her. The noseless one came closer by her and started licking her nipple, slowly cycling it with the tip of his tongue.

The mustached one's was stroking her left thigh, his hand moving upwards, clearly heading for her sensitive area. The waitress tried to push it away once it came too close but without any significant force to actually stay away, the patron slipped his hand inside her panty. "Please… s-sstop, I… Stop it!…" She insisted on playing prude, but she soon started moaning in pleasure. "Fucking 'ell, you wet already?" Mustached one said, smiling creepily as his fingers were moving inside the young woman's underwear. Urick's eyes were etched there, thanks to his enhanced eyesight he could see perfectly even from this relative distance. The waitresses' underwear soon became soaking wet from her juices.

The Witcher's lips formed a wide smile as the patrons started taking off her panty… but his smile melted as quickly as it formed as the sight confirmed to him a rumor that he desperately hoped it was just that – a rumor. Northern women weren't shaving the hair in their sensitive areas. "Oh fuck." He said under his breath " _Well, I guess beggars can't be choosers, could've been worse._ " He thought to himself as his 'sword' softened somewhat.

The bald one pulled his penis out, fully erect, and moved the young woman closer… but as its head touched her vagina, the waitress immediately stopped moaning, she gasped, and quickly pull herself away before it managed to get inside her. She started thrashing around, visibly panicking "No. Stop! Lem'me go!" She protested, struggling to free herself. The perverted patrons weren't dissuaded at all. Not even now. They tighter their hold on her, their expressions also hardened, they obviously won't take 'no' for an answer.

The Witcher was sure about two things right about now. That the waitress wasn't pretending, and that he would live to regret his choice. His hand grabbed the hilt of his sword.

But the blade only managed to get inches outside of its scabbard however, as the innkeeper's voice roared through the entire inn all of a sudden, drawing the attention of everyone inside on the spot. "WHAD DA FUUUUUUCKK, ARE YA DOING?!" The Witcher's hand was still holding the hilt of his sword as the echo of the innkeeper's voice stopped. The perverted patrons had frozen in place. The people outside started yelling for silence, again. And the dog outside was barking, also again.

"Ged ya hands ov yer ya fucking degenereds!" The innkeeper said and pulled out a sizable cleaver from behind the counter. "Or I'll chop ya balls and fed em to Flaffy! Understand?" He added poignantly, his very last word was delivered in a lower volume but there was a touch of malevolence in it that wasn't there before, no mattered how much he yelled.

The perverted patrons immediately let go of the waitress. While they didn't protest, displeasure was written all over their faces.

The Witcher let go of his sword's hilt, the blade slipped back into the scabbard.

After stood properly and arranged her clothes so that they cover her properly, the waitress started looking around. "Where on Mother's did it…"

Aware that she meant her serving disc, Urick took it from the floor and return it to her the same way he received it – rolling down the other side of the inn.

The waitress spotted it -mostly by sound by the looks of it- and bended down with rather delicate movements. She caught the disc right between her open palms. _"Perfect pass."_ Urick thought, almost surprised that it came to her in a perfectly straight line without changing direction or fall flat midway.

The waitress stood up, her head lowered, looking at the disc. She flipped it in her hands in a somewhat uncharacteristic -one could say even playful- way to hold it properly.

She raised her eyes to look at Urick… and smiled… a little, and only for a moment, but she did… " _Yeah, keep your hopes up, you idiot."_ The Witcher berated himself internally.

"Fiona, wad da fucks ya standing dere for. Fetch dem mugs and ged yer arse 'ere!" The innkeeper ordered.

"Mhm" Fiona nodded and started picking up the tankards from the table, trying her best to avoid looking at the patrons. Once she was done she returned to the counter and smacked her disc on it with an audible metallic sound, one of tankards started shaking and it would have fell if she didn't grabbed it in time to keep it still. She let out a sigh.

The innkeeper frowned, and, after a few seconds, he threw at her face a woolen… something? It was too small to be a winter coat – it looked more like a blanket, it had strands, and a big button somewhat close to one end of it. Urick had never seen something like that before, so he wasn't sure how to refer to it as. It was colorful, and seemed to be hand-knitted.

Fiona took the woolen-something out of her face and held it up in front of her with both hands, a curious look on her face.

"Cover ya selv ya damb ho." The innkeeper said, grimacing in obvious displeasure, his face was ugly as it was but it looked even more ugly right now than when he was frowning. "And take de mop and ztart cleaning de floor dis is an inn, not de bordello ya've worken. Com'on be quick aboudit!" He continued, gesturing her to make haste.

Fiona threw the woolen-something over her shoulders, covering herself with it. It seemed that it meant to cover the upper part of her body, as it was reaching down to her belly, almost, it covered her forearms. The Witcher may have not liked the fact that it covered her chest completely, thus depriving him of the only sight he wished to look upon, but he had to admit, she looked good in it, in a reserved kind of way.

She turned her head to her left to look at the Witcher. "Oh, I almost forgot." She said, and walked towards him.

As she moved her right arm to pick his tankard, her face contorted in a pained expression, she touched the table's surface instead and put her left hand on her abdomen. She started clenching her teeth in pain, lowering her head.

"Fiona, whad de fuck are ya doing?" The innkeeper demanded.

The waitress gave no answer. Instead, she boldly sat on the bench opposite of Urick's table. She clenched her abdomen then with both hands, visibly in pain. Her eyes shut, sweat started running down her forehead.

Urick decided to intervene this time. "Give her a few minutes. She is in pain." He said, bracing himself for a rebuke, from the innkeeper, or the waitress herself.

"Useless ho. Dat's out of yer wages!" The innkeeper said, frowning, and took out a bottle from the counter, doubtlessly the Temerian Rye. He pulled out the cork with his teeth and filled the tankards that lay on the disc in front of him, rather messily, throwing some of the liquor on the floor and making the mess caused by the broken White Wolf look even worse than before. Urick wondered if that was his intention.

He took all three tankards in his hands, two on the left and one on the right – he didn't bother taking the disc, and went to give them to the unpleasant patrons. Not a single one of them was happy to see him, and the feeling was mutual, as he soon started to verbally abuse them as one of them supposedly gave him 'the evil eye'.

Urick sighed, heavily, very heavily. " _Never have I expected there would be a time that I would actually miss the Imperial Provinces… I never felt at home back there, but here… Here I really am a stranger."_

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 **/** Learn about the town of Weeping Willow and its secrets in the story: Last of the Ravens - Story Arc 1: Weeping Willow

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 **The Wyvern Witcher** **\- Codex**

 **Bonus Story: Enchantress Maleila's Guide – Alchemy – Mutagenic Potions**

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"When it comes to alchemy, it's not a question of ethics but of intentions – The deadliest of poisons can become life-saving medicines, and back, at the hands of those who know the appropriate dosage."

~ Jürgen, Alchemy Instructor of the School of the Manticore.

Mutagenic Potions, or simply Decoctions as they are called by the mutated monster hunters themselves, are an alchemical product developed by the Schools after decades of experimentation and research on the various monster species stranded in our world after the Conjunction of the Spheres. Unlike their simple Potions whose effects usually last for a few minutes, and typically need to be consumed when entering a hostile area or right before battle, Decoctions' effects can last for a whole day at least, and the abilities they provide are much more powerful. However, Decoctions have very high toxicity and will overburden a witch or witcher's system upon consumption, this usually prevents any further elixirs from being imbibed before or during a fight until their effect expires*. Furthermore, unlike the weaker brews, which are much easier to make since they require only a sample of a monster's blood, essence, or the appropriate organ, Decoctions require Mutagens in their creation -usually those harvested from rare and powerful monsters- and a fight to the death with a superior representative of the non-sapient (or semi-sapient) invaders often leaves little room for thoughts for preservation of the adversary's body. Despite the higher risk involved in their creation, one Decoction is well worth two or more of the basic Potions, and one could consider them a testament of a mutated monster hunter's skill and ability because of the precision (which sometimes can be surgical) required to obtain the necessary Mutagens.

*It is interesting to note that unlike Potions, which can leave traces of toxicity on the mutant's body after their effects expire, a Mutagenic Potion's toxicity will be instantly cleansed from the body once its effect ends. Some witches and witchers have noted that after consuming a particular Decoction for years they started to develop permanent -if inferior- versions of the abilities the strong elixirs provide. This leads me to believe that Decoctions further mutate a witch or witcher's organism, if ever so slightly, making their name even more appropriate.

Each School had developed their own unique formulae, and while today most knowledge is pretty much 'shared' by every mutated monster hunter on the Path since they often come across their fallen brethren and any still-recoverable valuables they might have, they have been kept a close guarded secret for years, if not decades or centuries. Below is a list of the few a have managed to uncover during my subsequent visits in some of the Schools:

Reliever's Decoction

 **Produced in:** The School of the Wolf

 **Ingredients:** Dwarven Spirit*, four Red Mutagens, four Blue Mutagens, four Green Mutagens, and the Essence of a wraith

*It is made by mixing simple Mahakaman ale with white myrtle petals. It serves as the alchemical base for most Mutagenic Potions.

 **Toxicity:** Very high

 **Effects and/or abilities granted:** The elixir provides the witch/witcher with an arcane aura unseen to the naked eye that greatly increases damage dealt and decreases damage taken against all kinds of specters regardless of source.

 **Side effects and/or Drawbacks:** The aura radiated by the mutant is rather intense, and can mess with their medallion's ability to detect magical threats. While witchers made in the Sign-oriented Schools -like the Griffin or the Fox, as well as the 'witches' of the female-only School of the Raven- are more likely to encounter this problem, any mutated monster hunter with more magical powers than normal should keep this in mind when investigate haunted areas and have White Honey available.

The School of the Wolf has a long history of fighting specters and dispelling curses as such they have produced various ways in dealing with those threats more quickly and effectively, including: Specter Oil, the Moon Dust Bomb and this mixture that they often call "Peacemaker", amusingly enough.

Queen Hydra Decoction

 **Produced in:** The School of the Manticore

 **Ingredients:** Dwarven Spirit, Queen Hydra Mutagen, Berbercane fruit, Moleyarrow, and Ribleaf

 **Toxicity:** Very high

 **Effects and/or abilities granted:** A metabolism altering elixir that significantly extends the duration of all Potions. For every Potion consumed beforehand the duration of the next one extends even further.

 **Side effects and/or Drawbacks:** Its effect doesn't apply to Mutagenic Potions.

The alchemist-mages of the School of the Manticore have long developed specialized formulae meant to maximize the benefits of mutations. And this potion is in no way different. Because of the high toxicity tolerance required for the effective use of this Decoction, it is chiefly utilized by Witchers whose Trial of the Grasses had already provided with a stronger immune system, or those that have years enough on the Path to develop the tolerance necessary to drink it.

Incubus Decoction

 **Produced in:** The School of the Griffin

 **Ingredients:** Dwarven Spirit, Incubus Mutagen, Allspice root, Ginatia petals, Honeysuckle, and Mandrake root

 **Toxicity:** Very High

 **Effects and/or abilities granted:** An intriguing combat potion which effect triggers only when the body's adrenaline reaches high levels. Even among Mutagenic Potions it has an extraordinary long duration. Within the course of a fight, the strength of physical blows, regeneration of stamina, and resistances to pain, bleeding, and even poisoning, grows till they reach a maximum threshold allowed by the mutant's body.

 **Side effects and/or Drawbacks:** The drinker of this Decoction may experience some… 'involuntary stimulation', a few nights after usage.

During the early days of monster hunting many witchers dedicated their lives in exterminating as many specimens of the monster known as Incubus as they could. Those of the School of the Griffin in particular took great zeal in this endeavor before moving to the dragonhunting that cemented their reputation. This Decoction is only one of the many alchemical creations the Griffins had produced from the ingredients harvested from the Hybrids after decades of research.

 _A note attached below the entry_ – What I always found curious was how much thorough the mutated monster hunter were in this particular hunt, especially since Succubi are generally given the benefit of the doubt by them. Yet any of the elder witchers I have questioned in regards to this subject were evasive at best and aggressively dismissive at worst (without even going into details). The Raven Witches had little to add on the matter as well, besides a few rather suggestive comments which I never managed to discern the meaning of. Their bestiaries make mention of them, and they keep the recipes of the alchemical creations that require their organs recorded, yet they were no entries describing the creatures themselves in detail.

Accursed One's Decoction

 **Produced in:** Unknown

 **Ingredients:** Dwarven Spirit, one Mutagen harvested each from three different Therianthropes* when in bestial form, six Red Mutagens, six Purple Mutagens, six Yellow Mutagens, Devil's claw, part of a human heart, and a sample of elven blood.

*A Therianthrope is a Human or any other member of the known sapient races who, due to genetics or a curse, can shapeshift into an animal, or into a half-human/half-animal, like Werewolves or Werecats.

 **Toxicity:** Severe

 **Effects and/or abilities granted:** Upon consumption the mutant's adrenaline is instantly raised to maximum and doesn't drop until the Decoction expires. During its duration, the Witch/Witcher is also granted infinite stamina. And all senses, physical strength, reflexes, regeneration, and resistance to pain and injuries, are all massively increased.

 **Side effects and/or Drawbacks:** The Decoction suppresses the effects of any other elixir consumed after it. The mutant loses any distinction between friend and foe and will attack and kill anything that comes to their perception – be it defenseless women, elderly folk, children, or their own friends and lovers. Once it expires, the Decoction will either kill the Witch/Witcher outright, or, in the case of strong tolerance, paralyze the body either permanently or for a few days, leaving him/her vulnerable.

This mixture is considered 'evil' even by the mutated monster hunters themselves, who are notorious for lacking a clear distinction between it and good. It has gone through many renames over the years: Bloodlust, Svalblod's Blessing, Scarlet Fury, The Last Dance, but apparently "Accursed One's" was deemed the most appropriate name.


	2. Draconic emblem - Personal whims

**/**

* * *

 **The Wyvern Witcher**

 **Story Arc One: Grim Up North**

 **Chapter 2: Draconic emblem - part 1: Personal whims**

* * *

The Witcher was leaning on the wall of the smithy as he waited for his order, enjoying the sweet music that was coming from inside the forge. Steel being hammered in the anvil, hot blades soaking in water, the grinding, all these felt relaxing in his ears, always have, especially when could all be heard at the same time like now, the smell of molten metal wasn't bad either… Urick wondered sometimes if his father was a blacksmith, he always felt comfortable around fire and metal… He dismissed this foolish assumption. _He never had a family. Ever! …_ Or he did? … _"And I simply screwed things up. Like always. Betraying my mates back in Ymlac because I was afraid and couldn't take the pain, getting exiled from the School of the Wyvern for killing a broodbrother in a feat of rage, getting my entire hanza killed when I made a mistake that got the attention of the wrong kind of hunter… Seriously everyone that stays around me for too long ends up a corpse sooner or later. It's a miracle really, that Elrik escaped this fate. Or did he? Who knows? He might be dead by now."_ The Witcher sighed at his own grim thoughts and looked up to the sky as if it held an answer for him. It didn't. Gray clouds were obscuring the great sun above, he smirked at just how appropriately symbolic that was.

Rivia, the winter capital of the twin realms of Lyria and Rivia was a rather cold place herself, despite the migration season not be very far off, making her status as 'winter capital' rather ironic – or appropriate, depending on how one defines winter in the North. Since Urick passed the border towards here on Hlaith's saddle clouds have been ever-present in the skies, the rays of the sun only briefly crept through the occasional opening in the 'curtain' above, and that was never for long (twelve or so seconds, at maximum). Humidity in the air was high as well, making everything seem dull and depressing, even to a witcher like him. He felt sluggish, as if his bones weighted more than usual, and struggled to keep his eyes open each time his eyelids felt a tiny bit heavier. He didn't like any of it. It made him feel older than he was, and he was young for a witcher, not even seventy.

The approaching man in heavy armor that was coming his way with heavy, aggressive steps forced his eyelids open, the unpleasant expression on his face all but screamed trouble. He was big, bigger than Urick was, with a nice chiseled face that sported a mustache in the imperial style -this style originates in the Empire, but in the North it was reserved for the important men only, like aristocrats, sorcerers, or particularly wealthy merchants and village elders- the emblem in his expensive-looking armor depicted a green dragon with red eyes that has been pierced in the chest by a black sword while spouting green fire, he carried no weapons.

The man stopped four paces away from the Witcher and shot him a look he was all too familiar with – _the kind of one who's a ass and thinks of himself above everyone else and is offended by the mere presence (or existence) of some people_ – and mutants probably counted among them. Urick removed his hands from behind his head and folded them across his chest while shooting the man who most likely was a noble knight a similarly condescending look.

They stare at each other for a few seconds before the Witcher broke the silence. "Something I can help you with sir?" Urick's voice was completely dispassionate "Any monsters that need slaying?" He didn't really expect an answer, at least not one that was warm, welcoming, or completely honest, but he chose to be polite all the same.

Instead of answering, the 'noble knight' spited on the Witcher's face, hitting him in the right cheek, and resumed walking towards the smithy.

The Witcher was wiping his cheek with his gloved hand. But when the armored man came close enough, he retaliated. The armored man stumbled back a little. It was rather juvenile of him to admit, but Urick felt proud of the accuracy of his aim, his concentrated saliva fell straight into the 'knight's' face.

"How dare you, you vagabond?!" The armored man yelled. The sound of his voice was so ridiculously over-the-top it couldn't make any more obvious how much insulted he felt.

"With dare." Urick plainly answered. He had come far past the point of caring about his behavior in these barbarous lands anymore. _And as they say back home "In the North, do as the Nordlings do."_

The armored man wiped the spit from his face, but not all, his mustache has become undone on the right side, the whisker facing down. "Do you know who I am, mutant?!" He asked indignantly, with a really angry face.

Urick folded his arms over his chest again before answering, his tone as plain and monotonous as it was before "No sir, I am afraid I have no idea."

The armored man wiped the rest of the saliva from his face after realizing that the Witcher's eyes were fixed there. He put his hand on his chest then and started speaking in such a dramatic tone that it would've made the seasoned actors of the Etolian amphitheater feel dull by comparison. "I am Ambroz the Indomitable! Fourth in line to hold the name and honor of the legendary dragonslayer! Knight in the service of Her Majesty, Queen Meve of Lyria and Rivia! Seventh-born son of the noble house…" the Witcher stopped paying attention and instead started nodding in affirmation at the hurricane of names (or titles?) that was coming from the knight's mouth, hoping it will end soon…

… _A fool's hope that proved,_ he realized after a couple of minutes passed…

…a few more minutes passed…

…Ambroz finally finished.

"What can I say sir, your name carries such weight behind it, I am surprised your back is as straight as it is. You really are worthy of it." The Witcher said in a complete deadpan "Compared to mine, it has so much meaning. I am Urick, by the way. Just Urick. Born in… the gutter I guess? Brother of NONE. Son of… some street whore I guess?- Seventh-born you said? Bless your mother's courage sir, for-" –– "Not only had you spat on my mien without falling on your knees to apologize for the insult!" Ambroz loudly interrupted the Witcher, and began walking towards him "But you have the audacity to make fun of me?! And insult my mother's memory?!" the 'knight's' face was mere inches away from the Witcher's by the time he finished talking. Urick didn't raise his eyes to meet his however, instead he lowered them, and turn to the left to see that Ambroz's yelling had caught the attention of folk nearby who they start gathering around, clearly to enjoy the sight of a nonhuman freak be put in his rightful place. _Nordlings were like that._

Not enjoying other men to invade his personal space as much as he didn't enjoy prolonged eye contact, Urick hoped to the left and took two steps back without breaking his posture. The way his 'escape' was executed managed to draw a few laughs out of the gathering crowd.

"Running away coward?"

"No sir, I just don't like men invading my personal space since I have no interest in them sharing my bed."

"What did you say?"

"If you are interested in strong, healthy lads I think you would find those of Passiflora in the city of Novigrad to be quite-" –– "I HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR MOCKERY YOU DEGENERATE SCUM!" Ambroz screamed in utter fury, his chiseled face had twisted into the angriest grimace Urick had seen since coming to the North – even his now comically uneven mustache did little to spoil the effect.

The knight took out his gauntlet and threw it at the Witcher, aiming for his legs.

The Witcher jumped and avoided it. His hands clenched into fists and his expression turned serious three seconds after he landed.

"I challenge you, rogue!" Ambroz said "In a duel to the death!"

"Oh yes! Yes, yes, yes!" some woman squeed from inside the crowd, her voice full of excitement. "Yeah, teach the fucking witchman his place!" a man yelled, and immediately after him, the entire crowd started wildly demanding for a fight to commence.

"The good folk have spoken Witcher, you cannot refuse now. Honor is at stake – yours and mine." Ambroz said, gesturing towards the crowd as if to drive home how important their howling was.

Urick turned to look at the 'good folk' that have gathered around the smithy's fence. The way they howled and cheered in the prospect of seeing the blood of something that in their eyes wasn't human spilled reminded him of the Monster Coliseum back home. It disgusted him. _"Good folk my ass"_ he thought, frowning, and turn to the 'knight' "I am afraid I cannot accept the honor of fighting you sir. Because I don't have any to defend. As I revealed to you before, I am the lowest of the low, and as all witchers are, I am also a coward and a cheat, so there is no honor in-" –– "You won't talk your way out of this!" Ambroz interrupted again, he may have not been as loud as before, but this time, his expression was legitimately threatening. No dramatic exaggerations of any kind.

The Witcher took the situation seriously this time, realizing that he won't escape this, no matter how much he wanted to "First blood only." Urick demanded.

"I already set the rules for this fight Witcher." Ambroz said and spat on his ungauntleted hand. He then wiped the lower part of his face with it a few times till his mustache became more… even-looking?

Urick put some effort to keep a straight face but he managed "Well I am not accepting them. First blood only!" he repeated more firmly.

The Witcher and the knight stare at each for a few seconds before a voice cause both of them to drop the contest at the same time to turn at its source: Master Carson "What the flying fuck are all these humans doing here?!" The dwarven blacksmith barked as he was coming their way, carrying a sword wrapped in cloth. Judging by the design of the hilt, as well as its size and width, it appears to be a sihil -a rather large sihil- It wasn't Urick's order.

"What the fu-?" the dwarven blacksmith turn to the knight without finishing his sentence "This again!" He said, then darted between the two "If you two want to kill each other go elsewhere okay this a ploughing workshop not a-!" Master Carson's angry rant stopped abruptly as Ambroz grabbed the sword's grip suddenly. The sihil hissed out of the scabbard and swung towards the Witcher immediately. He avoided it, but since he didn't expect the assault, the blade slashed his cheek and nose from the left side before hitting the smithy's wall. It was nothing but a surface wound. A second swing follow suit but this time Urick expected it, his adrenaline raising. He dodged to the left, completely avoiding the blade this time around. His opponent was surprisingly fast for a man wearing heavy plate. A third swing followed, horizontal, this one was slower than the previous ones. The Witcher avoided it by rolling to the left, gaining some distance from his opponent's reach, he recovered quickly.

"Is that your idea of honor!?" Urick yelled in anger.

"By refused my challenge you also foregone the right to defend yourself" Ambroz's tone was annoyingly self-righteous as he spoke "Thus you made your choice mutant: You choose death."

The spectators started cheering at the knight's degree.

"Yeah!"

"Kill him!"

"Death to the Witcher!"

"Slaughter the freak!"

Every child's voice that Urick heard amidst the crowd was both a small nail in his heart as well as a weight off his guilty consciousness over the massacre he committed in Honeysuckle.

"Very well" Urick said, tasting his own blood "Victory or death." He challenged, solemnly promising to the Great Sun that the pretentious knight's fate would be the latter.

"Hexer!" Master Carson's rough scream caught Urick's attention, he turned immediately. A sheathed sword in the dwarven blacksmith's strong hands, the pommel shaped like the head of a wyvern – his sword "Catch!" He yelled and threw it in his direction.

The Witcher sprang to grab it. His opponent wasn't willing to allow him a chance to defend himself and moved to attack, farther demonstrating how much of knight he wasn't. Ambroz swung his sword vertically aiming to cut him in half from the wrist below. He was moving fast for a man of his size and weight he carried but still he was just a human, and a human's speed and reflexes could never much a Witcher's. Urick fell on his knees, avoiding the fake knight's sword blade while grabbing the sword thrown to him from the scabbard's higher point with his left hand. The Witcher was already changing his stance into a one-foot kneeling position while the fake knight was raising his sword above his head, preparing for another horizontal swing. The sihil fell. The Witcher jumped backwards, avoiding the blade, as he tried to regain his footing in time… however he took three unsteady steps back and finally fell on his bottom.

Despite superior speed and reflexes the Witcher had clearly overestimated himself with that move, it was rather risky and it could of have easily costed him his life. He promised to himself not to make the same mistake again as he returned to his feet and grabbed the sword's hilt. He drew it, releasing the blade from the scabbard and threw the latter to the side. The wyvern steel sword's blade shone with the yellow light of the Svarog runestones that were engraved into it – exactly what he paid in advance for.

"Gut the ploughing whoreson Hexer!" Cried Master Carson "I had it with his shite every bloody time!"

The Witcher assumed a defensive stance, holding his sword with both hands, and began slowly circling the fake knight. Ambroz assumed a similar stance but unlike his more agile opponent he remained still. Both the combatants' eyes were etched at each other, both wanting for the other to be the first to lunge an attack.

Ambroz had proven the least patient after the Witcher had pretty much moved to the opposite side of where he originally was, lunging at the Witcher with a thrust. Urick dodged to the left. But this time around his opponent anticipated that, his arms stretched, he moved the blade along the Witcher's path. Urick deflected the blade and retreated back. Amboz didn't slow down as his blow was deflected however, instead—without losing momentum—he followed up with an immediate swing, then another, and another, and continuing. His sihil's superior reach was forcing the Witcher to deflect each time while pushing him back with each blow.

The pretender knight has proven himself a more demanding opponent than originally expected -the speed in which he swung his huge sword was worthy of any Frundsberg Braveheart's- but Urick was still determined to defeat him in clear swordfight. The Witcher wasn't moving at full speed, he could have easily avoided Ambroz's attacks with no need to deflect. He was biding his time, giving the pretender knight the illusion that he had the upper hand while waiting for the right moment to strike – And judging by the way he continued carelessly swinging his sword without a moment to breathe -like a man berserk- with a furious grimace while sweating, that moment won't take long to come. The Witcher was making sure not to find himself backed to a corner till then.

The moment came! Nine swings in succession, each new one was delivered with reduced speed than the previous one. Eight deflected, the final one dodged to the left. Ambroz had exhausted himself and his sword fell heavily and noisily to the ground on his last swing.

The Witcher raised his sword to strike as he regained his footing. His sword fell.

Ambroz didn't immediately realize what happened and probably thought for a moment that the Witcher missed. He didn't. And once he moved to steady himself, Ambroz realized it too: His left hand -the one he took his gauntlet off and threw at the Witcher's feet as a challenge- has been severed from the wrist.

Ambroz started screaming in horror and shock… and then in fury as he raised his sword with his spare hand to strike at the Witcher again when he moved a little closer.

Urick deflected the blade in time. He was surprised that the fake knight had strength enough to swing his sword at him again, but he has learned from a young age to never drop his guard till he was one hundred percent sure his opponent wasn't breathing.

Ambroz went for another swing. Seriously injured and tired, he struggled to lift his large sihil, his move slow and clumsy.

The Witcher took advantage and moved fast, slashing his armored adversary in the axilla as he lifted the sword above his head, cutting through the chainmail with his runestone-reinforced sword. He quickly turned around for an immediate second strike, slashing at the back of his opponent's right knee, severing the joint.

Ambroz dropped his sword as he fell on his knees. He then fell completely to the ground. A paddle of blood began forming. He wasn't breathing anymore.

Urick stare at the corpse for a while before he went to collect his new sword's scabbard from the ground. With the exception of the children crying, the once wild crowd had now gone completely silent. They were obviously not entertained at the fact that the mutated freak had defeated the 'noble knight.'

"Here! Here good sirs!" a man's voice and fast steps broke the symphony of cries that had started to almost sound pleasurable to the Witcher's ears. Other steps followed the man, steps heavy with armor.

Urick turn to look at seven men, all sporting the coat of arms of the twin realms, wearing medium armor with the exception of the one who appears to be leading them who wore heavy plate instead, not as impressive as the three piece one of Ambroz's, but his definitely provided better mobility. Four were armed with crossbows, two with halberds, and the leader with a spiked mace – a short sword was also hanging from his belt.

Urick let his scabbard fell to the ground. His sword's blade didn't need rest just yet.

"Throw your sword away Witcher," the leading guard ordered, his voice was gravely and unpleasant, more appropriate for a cutthroat than a soldier "and come with us." He added.

The Witcher didn't comply, his grip on his sword's handle tightened, his eyes at his new possible adversaries.

The guardsmen's leader raised his hand slightly after a few seconds of seeing that the Witcher wasn't cooperating. All the arbalests in his unit raised their crossbows at the same time, pointing at him. "Do as you are told. And you may come out in one piece yet." He said.

 _"Damn it, I don't have any bombs with me. If all four shoot at me at the same time I can block one bolt with the Quen Sign and deflect another one with my sword but the rest will hit me… except if these four are the worst marksmen that ever lived"_ Urick took a good look at the crossbowmen _"Which doesn't seem to be the case. They WILL hit me. And then I would be easy prey for those halberdiers."_ The Witcher had assessed his situation. All the odds were against him, no matter what.

"I repeat myself for the last time Witcher: Throw your sword away."

"Wait a ploughing minute Adolv!" Master Carson yelled "the Hexer merely defended himself from -" –– "Stay out of this Carson!" the leading guard interrupted the dwarven blacksmith "If you know what is good for you" the leading guard continued "I would enjoy neither the prospect of seeing your workshop sharing the fate of your predecessor's nor making your wife back in Mahakam cry."

"What! For twenty fucking years now, I outfit your troops, you whoreson!" Master Carson snapped back at the leading guard.

"And we are really grateful for you supporting us in keeping the law and order" despite the vocal dissonance the leading guard maintained a serious and amiable non-threatening expression while talking, and he was rather casual, one could say annoyingly so "and for our mutually beneficial relationship to continue master, I suggest you go back to your workshop and fetch a pair of those dimeritium handcuffs you have stashed away for the redanians that will be here in three days -I am sure they won't miss a pair- and put them on our male witch here so he won't attempt any spellcasting after throwing away his sword."

"…" Urick's eyes went wide… He has never felt more cornered in his life, and he had fought Leshy without silver and triumphed. He began sweating.

"Ploughing whoreson, I thought we were mates." Master Carson whispered to himself. "I am sorry Hexer." He said, beaten. The Witcher could hear his footsteps as the dwarven blacksmith went back inside his workshop.

Urick's face completely externalized his feeling of despair, there was no point trying to hide it anymore. He was absolutely sure that if he barely managed to make it out alive of the cells in the Empire-controlled lands then he definitely won't come out as he entered in the ones of those barbarians _– At the very best!_ The Witcher was clenching his teeth.

He threw his sword away in surrender.

 _"In the end, here is where everything is paid back… Guess there is justice in this world."_

 **/**

 **[- NINE DAYS AGO -]**

 **/**

"So… Fiona… Who's the lucky man?" Urick asked the waitress, again against his better judgment, since he ended up sharing the table with her, even if she only sit here until the pain in her abdomen subsides so she could return to her duties.

Fiona raised her head slightly "The weather." She answered with a grimace. "Or the witch that caused it. Devils take her if that's the case!" She spat.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not pregnant Witcher!" She lowered her head again after soundly clarifying, Urick decided against saying anything else.

After letting some time pass, the Witcher decided to speak again. "Since when had the pain started?"

"Since yesterday" Fiona answered without looking at the Witcher "I vomited four times since yesterday. Two before the cockerel even cawed. Haven't slept at all. Worst night of my life." She clenched her belly even tighter then, her pain obvious in her face. She didn't seem to be getting any better.

"Do you have anything to boil water in?" The Witcher asked.

"In the-mh-the kitchen."

"Stay here for a moment? I'll be back in a minute." Urick said, pick up his sword, and walked towards the stairs to go to his room.

"Hey!" yelled the innkeeper from the other table "Where de fuck are ya going Witcher? Ya ain't pay!" he continued while holding the head of the noseless patron on the table's surface in which spirit appeared to have spilled.

Used to it by now, not to mention the fact that he had rented the only room the inn had for the night, the Witcher ignored the innkeeper.

. . .

The Witcher returned from his room.

The waitress has remained on the table as instructed, still clenching her belly, also sweating again. Urick came by it to leave his sword along with the bundle of peppermint leaves he brought from Hlaith's saddle upstairs, he then headed for the counter. The innkeeper was standing behind it again.

When the Witcher came close enough, the innkeeper moved right in front of him and pushed him back. "Where ya think ya're goin?" the innkeeper asked with a grimace.

"In the kitchen" Urick answered plainly, sure as hell that he won't be allowed there.

"Why?"

"To borrow a bowl or something else to boil water in. Also, do you have any spare bread by any chance? Edible bread. It's for the wai-Wench! It's for the wench. It'll help her go better." Urick explained as calmly and politely as he could muster.

The innkeeper's grimace changed then to one expressing surprise, it was rather amusing to look at, he even raised an eyebrow "Fiona, when de fuck did I fire ya and hire de damn Witcher for wenching?!" he barked at the waitress.

Fiona turned to the direction of the counter "Sorry boss, I'll…" she said while attempting to stood up, with difficulty.

"Sit where you are woman!" Urick loudly protested – the loudest he had been this night. Only when the waitress's bottocks were once again on the bench the Witcher turned to the 'boss', an unfittingly bemused smile was decorating the innkeeper's ugly face. "You never fired her, and you never hired me, okay." The Witcher said.

"Reaaally now." the innkeeper grinned, fakely.

"Yes master." Urick continued, his serious expression unchanged "She is not with child, she's just sick, and I think it's in your best interest to see her healthy again, as quickly as possible."

"And pray yell…" the innkeeper took his large butcher-knife from below the counter and stuck it on its wooden surface "Why is dat." He said, still grinning, and began toying threateningly with the large cooking tool. The fact that he hasn't screamed or swore yet held a nasty promise, Urick thought.

"Why, let's see…" Urick began "I think the fact that six or so years -the least- is a long time to begin looking for a new wench in this village. And you're not getting any younger master, with all due respect."

"What?" the innkeeper asked confused. Urick expected him to snap at him but he didn't. That he had stopped fiddling with his cleaver was also a good sign.

"Pardon my dwarven, master. But quite frankly: Your ale tastes like Nekker piss. She…" Urick pointed at the waitress "is probably the sole reason men in this village keep coming. She has the best pair of tits around here, and probably the best… well, everything" Urick turned to the table the perverted patrons were sitting, their expressions as unfriendly as the last time the Witcher looked at them "I am pretty sure you understand what I am talking about master, and I am also sure…" he gestured at the patrons "that these distinguished gentlemen here that are obviously regulars in your fine establishment agree with me." After finishing his sentence, Urick took a second to appreciate himself. He certainly had improved tremendously in the art of bullshitting!

"I didn't get half the shite the freak said, but I'm only here for Fiona's teats." The one without a nose said, the entire left side of his face was drenched in beer. The other patrons didn't comment. They just glare at the Witcher.

"See master." Urick's eyes returned to the innkeeper "Since I came here early this afternoon, I only saw children and women long past their prime so I think, she…" he pointed at the waitress again "is still your best bet here if you want to keep your steady flow of customers going. Besides -" –– "Whad de fuck's a 'prime' Witcher?" the innkeeper interrupted with a gesture "some curze or zomething?"

The Witcher managed to keep a straight face yet. "No master, it is…" Urick stumbled on his words "well ehmm…"

"Yeá, what?" the innkeeper asked, annoyance clear in his voice.

Not able to find more civilized words, the Witcher decided to go with what originally came to his head, hoping he won't regret it. "The women here are old and ugly" Urick sighed "with saggy tits, soft asses and they're hairy as fuck. Only a dwarf's cock will go hard with that… That's what I meant when I said "long past their prime.""

"Ayyye."

"The freak's right there."

Two of the patrons -the noseless one and the bald specifically- agreed with the Witcher, nodding in affirmation. The one with the horseshoe mustache didn't say anything though, his stare as hostile as ever.

Urick turn to the innkeeper again. "Besides…" he paused and moved closer to the big ugly man, to his immense displeasure, before continue in a whisper "Her illness may catch on others. And you don't want that." he said and took a quick step back. The innkeeper was frowning but he appears to be listening. "Even if you gave her three days off she might not get better without any remedies" the Witcher continued "she might even get worse in fact. And I don't know if you have any cunning women in the area, but at least I -unlike her- won't ask for any coin in return."

"And ya'll do dis generozity why?" asked the inkeeper with a raised eyebrow.

… Urick paused. _"Good question, actually."_ He thought. He couldn't come up with a good answer for the inkeep (or himself for that matter) as of the 'why' he should help the waitress free of charge. _He was already at the counter, might as well take his beverage and go back to his room to drink it._ It wasn't like Fiona was particularly nice to him… He rationalized that he only wanted to get into her pants. His actions were nothing more than a shot into getting his prick inside there.

"Water's in de back," the innkeeper's voice brought the Witcher back to the present, to his surprise the big man had moved aside "zecond barrel from de left. Dere's spare bread in de wooden box to de table, bowls to de levd." The innkeep continued.

"Leevd?"

"Aye levd." The innkeep frowned "You don know where dat is? Is dat-a-way." He gestured with his left hand.

"Thanks? A lot?" The Witcher said, with a really questioning look, and headed for the room behind.

Before he took his third step however the innkeeper grabbed him abruptly from the right shoulder and turned him around, forcing him to face him. Urick instinctively reached for his skinning knife. "Iv she gedz worse by tomorrow mornin" the innkeep whispered while close to the Witcher "You'd leave an arm ere." The way the innkeeper delivered his words was so sharply different than before he actually managed to make the Witcher feel tense, the fact the man started fiddling with his cleaver again wasn't helping, the Witcher almost drew his knife in a reflex.

The innkeeper moved back then "UNDERSTOOD WITCHFUCKER?!" The screamed his lungs out again. "ONE THING MISSING FROM DE KITCHEN AND I'LL CHOP YA PRICK OFF!"

It was funny how Urick was feeling less threatened now. He didn't exactly understood what all this was about but he didn't really care that much to learn. He headed to the kitchen.

* * *

 **The Wyvern Witcher - Codex**

 **Bonus Story:** **Domestic disputes - part 1: Close yet apart**

* * *

"Bravo, Witcher. No really, bravo. Congratulations are in order." Velmelianna's snark was -as always- accompanied by her signature sarcastic gesture: clapping, three to four times, with her fingers only touching the lowest part of her hand's hill, so softly that only the most minimal of sound could be produced. As if Urick couldn't tell when she was mad or not, after all the time they have spent together, she just had to do that each time.

The Witcher leaned against the wall, right beside the door of the bedroom (really tempted to walk through it, and spare himself the lecture) with the bitterest, most dishonest smile his face could make. Crossing his arms, he lowered his head. _"Thank you soooooooooo much Velma dear. I love you too!"_ He thought and nodded in sarcastic exaggeration, forming those words exactly like that in his mind so that she would 'hear' them clearly.

Velmelianna's beautiful lips contorted, only slightly originally and then into a full grimace that expressed her displeasure in that peculiar 'I am an Enchantress, and I've got this massive stick so deep inside my ass that I can feel it touching my brain!' kind of way that was typical of her kind. She had read his thoughts just as he expected. And obviously didn't like them. And for once, Urick didn't care.

"Honestly Urick…" the Sorceress sighed in exasperation as her voice trailed, and folded her arms, hands touching the elbows as always. Urick never really liked the way she crossed her arms like that, the gesture felt less defensive and more offensive – as if she was insulting him in a different language.

Whatever there was she wanted to say a few seconds ago she appeared to have dropped it. If she was still reading his mind the Witcher could not tell.

She didn't speak any further.

They both stayed where they were -Urick leaning against the wall, Velmelianna standing between the bed and the vanity table- both silent, both avoiding each others' eyes, both with their arms folded.

The awkward silence continued for a long while.

Not wishing to externalize anymore of the mounting frustration he had managed to accumulate these last few months Urick focused on any other sound he could still hear, no matter how small or fleeting it was: The droplets of water that were falling outside with gradually increasing speed, Minerva's occasional hooting coming from the living room, his own heartbeat, Velmelianna's heartbeat (which was frustratingly beating at normal rhythm), anything to just keep his mind away from his one true desire at the moment – To be elsewhere.

In the end it was Velmelianna that broke the silence, with a sigh.

The Witcher lifted his head as he heard the Sorceresses' steps. Velmelianna sat at the right side of the bed, her posture stiff, her hands gripping and releasing the sheets.

"You are neither my prisoner nor my slave Witcher." the Sorceress said, averting her eyes, her voice as cold as ice.

 _"No, I am not… but sometimes I do feel like I am Mel!"_ Urick thought, and Velmelianna turned to meet his gaze. He knew now for sure that she was reading his mind. The Witcher lowered his head again.

Silence and seclusion fell all over the room once again.

 _"If that's what married life is supposed to be like"_ Urick thought, hoping to break this suffocatingly awkward silence a moment sooner _"IT FUCKING SUCKS! We don't talk, we fight, we avoid each other, we're rarely having sex – And when we do, it immediately gets awkward- Why the hell would anyone want to live like that?! This shit doesn't even bring -"_ –– "Social acceptance chiefly…" Velmelianna interrupted before Urick even finished his train of thought. The Witcher raised his head promptly to look at her.

"The production of heirs," the Sorceress continued from where she left after pausing for a moment, she was facing at the window "economic benefit, envy, lust," she went on, her tone dispassionate but not exactly cold like before "idleness, curiosity, enthusiasm -" –– "Why you brought me there Mel?" Urick interrupted the Sorceress as he moved away from the wall and took two steps forward with his arms still across his chest. Unlike him before, the Sorceress didn't turn to face him. "I have told you that I hate banquets." The Witcher continued.

"And tonight, you perfectly demonstrated just how far the depth of your disdain for social gatherings runs." Velmelianna turned to face him then "To me. And to everyone else present there." She said, her stare way colder than her voice "Congratulations, once again." She turned back to the window immediately after saying that.

Urick's answer came in the form of a heavy sigh. He just didn't know what he should say to make things better… _He just wanted to leave._

"I told you, you are not a prisoner here. You can go whenever you want." She said without taking her eyes off the window. The ever-so-small sharpness in her voice told the Witcher that she wasn't as indifferent as she pretended to be.

Urick… just dropped his arms, incapable of forming a response.

After a few seconds of silence passed, the Witcher just put his hand across the right side of his face and ran it downward. _He wanted to leave…_

 _But not like this._

"Mel…" he paused, struggling to find the right words "Listen, I… I'm… sor-" –– "For what?!" The Sorceress abruptly cut the Witcher sort as she turned to face him, her voice uncharacteristically loud and harsh.

 _But her eyes… so full of anger… or is it hatred?_

"For what exactly do YOU feel sorry about Urick?!" The Sorceress stood. "Tell me! I'm dying to hear you out!"

Urick didn't answer. He had frozen in place. He had never seen Velmelianna like that. Not even when they adventured together and had to fight for their lives.

"For your behavior tonight?! For back when you left without warning?! For all the times you slept around?! For almost forcing yourself on me?! For killing Yarwel?! For what?! What?! WHAT?! WHA-" –– "FOR EVERYTHING DAMN IT, FOR EVERYTHING! … For everything, I am sorry."

. . .

"Go away."

"Mel -" –– "DON'T CALL ME THAT! JUST GO AWAY! LEAVE! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE–OUT OF MY SIGHT–OUT OF MY LIFE! I DON'T WANT TO LOOK AT YOU! I DON'T WANT YOU NEAR ME! JUST LEAVE! LEAVE! LEAVE! LEAVE! … leave… please…"


	3. Draconic emblem - Emotions or Instincts?

**/**

* * *

 **The Wyvern Witcher**

 **Story Arc One: Grim Up North**

 **Chapter 3: Draconic emblem - part 2: Emotions or Instincts?**

* * *

 **{ - … DAYS? … MOUNTHS AGO? - }**

 **/**

After filling the ceramic bowl with water and boiled it using the Igni Sign, Urick put it to his left side and moved to the loaf of stale bread.

Living by himself for most of his life had certainly taught him that Igni was probably the most useful Sign a Witcher could have while traveling, whether he followed the Path or not. Lighting lambs, starting fires to warm yourself, cooking (provided you're skilled enough to regulate the fire and not burn your fingers), incinerating multiple foes–not to mention that a great number of post-Conjunction monsters are weak to fire… _"It should have been the first Sign to be taught during magic training not the third damn it. Who the hell came up with that order of teaching anyway? First Aard, then Yrden, then Igni, then Axii, and then Quen and Heliotrop."_ the Witcher thought dejectedly while cutting the loaf into slices – though 'struggling' may have been a slightly more appropriate word to describe his current activity, since it must be four days old, at least. _"That teaching order was a recipe for disaster… as Aneirin and Ilar learned… the hard way."_ Urick paused as he finished cutting the slice. Reminiscing his so-called 'training' at the School of the Wyvern had yet to grow any more pleasant. _"To survive the Trial of the Grasses only to die unceremoniously at what constituted as an exam in the sick minds of those cold-blooded sadists that had the gall to call themselves 'Instructors'."_ The Witcher frowned. He hoped that with the passing of the years, he would either forget or grew numb to it; or at the very least, would stop pissing him off so much…

But he didn't forget…

He didn't accept…

And he was still just as bitter and angry about it as ever.

 _"You've learned your first Sign"_ the Witcher thought to himself _"Congratulations! You are not totally useless sons-of-whores"_ he continued, a bitter smile decorating his face as he proceeded to cut a second slice _"Oh, but guess what? That was the only Sign we are going to teach you inside the walls of the keep, the rest, you have to earn for yourselves"_ Urick went on with his comical recreation of the events of that accursed day in his mind while cutting, with slow strokes that each might as well held all the anger he was feeling, picturing the face of elder Drowovir saying exactly that with a smug, shit-eating grin. His bitter smile bared teeth on the right side as he imagined that complete killjoy of a man grinning – since the Old Witcher wouldn't know a joke even if it bit him in the rear. _"And how will you do that you're asking? Why, by passing the Trial of the Forest of course. The Circle of Elements awaits deep within the incredibly dark, creepy, foreboding woods full of dangerous predators to the east of the fortress. But have no fear for we will provide you with the necessary tools to survive, we are a little short on them though, so please make sure to use them wisely and sparingly, because you may really need them… Good luck! You've got four months. Oh, almost forgot to tell you, if any of you show up at the fortress a day earlier or later, or you haven't acquired all four elements when you returned, we are gonna chop off your shitty head, and decorate those nice spikes you just saw outside the entrance – YES, only half of those heads belong to bandits, we lie to you when you first came here – so you better keep a track of the hours and the size of the moon when out there. Because you see, surviving encounters with wolves, nekkers, foglets, endregas, the specters of those that didn't made it- Oh, AND FUCKING BAMBI, is as much part of the Trial as it is to locate those magic boulders. And **when** you find your way back, **then** , we will teach you how to cast the Signs associated with that element. Cause we're funny like that! Yes! Your objective might be to harvest the raw elemental energies of fire, water, earth, and ether. BUT. You won't be able to do anything with them since we forgot to teach you how to. Hilarious ain't it! A real side-splinter! The silver lining? Well, I guess it is that you're in no danger of going insane by drawing a little too much of the Power thanks to your mutations. Everything more mundane that can drive you insane though, is fair game. But you won't go insane because you're witchers, and Witchers don't have emotions to go out of control. And if it happened that you do, don't you worry. After you finished all the Trials it's guaranteed that you won't be feeling anything. No sadness, no fear, no mercy, no- _Agh! Son-of-a-bitch!" the Witcher groaned as he cut his thumb.

"Ya've done Witcher?" the innkeeper's voice was heard from behind. Urick turned to look at him, fully aware that he hadn't taken his eyes off him since he entered the kitchen.

The innkeeper stacked his huge cleaver to the counter, giving the Witcher a good view of its massive blade. "Well?" said the tall, fat, and visually unpleasant man with a raised eyebrow, and began rotating his cleaver in a threatening gesture with his equally fat fingers.

"Not yet, be patient master." Urick simply said and turn to take a look at his finger. _"Guess this Temerian shit is stronger than I expected"_ he thought and licked the 'wound'. It was a rather instinctive action as he wasn't actually hurting…

He could not help it in the end, his mind went there. And to his own shame, he found himself aroused as he remembered how sensual Loreil was when licking the blood from his wounds… The Witcher stopped abruptly licking the blood, shook his head, and pushed that memory away. _"I really need to stick my prick between a real woman's legs – Immediately!"_ he thought to himself. If he only knew how difficult would be to find sex in these barbaric lands the first day he came, he would have swallowed his pride and put up with Crippled Kate's madam's insults -at least long enough to convince her that he was 'clean', or simply cast Axii on her in the event his arguments failed- instead of punching her in the face. But then, he was fresh out of Nilfgaard territory, unaware of the hostilities he will encounter. Not to mention that he was both frustrated and furious that no more than twenty-four minutes after setting foot in Novigrad's docks he got into a fight with a bunch of drunkards over some imaginary insult, almost got stabbed by a passerby for no other reason than he just happen to walk towards him, got mugged by a street urchin that thought (or perhaps didn't) that mugging a Witcher was a good idea – which it wasn't, as the stupid little shit ended up at the bottom of the Pontar river along with his one-eared whore of a mother… The madam's blatant racism was the final straw that day. She hadn't said such vile things really as far as Urick remembers, neither did she ordered the bouncers to throw him out of the brothel, but he was just so angry at what happened to him up until then that he lunged his fist at her without any thought, or awareness, for everything went red… What actually brought him back to reality was the screaming of one of the girls. _Was it really just one punch he gave the madam?_ The Witcher wondered as a picture was becoming clearer in his mind – That of the madam, lying on the floor, blood covering her face, her teeth on the floor…

"No more booze for me tonight." The Witcher was done with reminiscing. He decided to focus on the task at hand without obstructing himself further, even if it was nothing more than a stupid whim devoid of any promises of 'reward', or, simple, old-fashioned gratitude.

. . .

After cutting the bread into five slices and toasted them carefully, Urick placed them in a plate to his right.

The Witcher looked around the kitchen. And to his fortune, spotted a whole bunch of eating utensils of different materials to his left – all clean, the waitress' handiwork, he guessed. He took the one ceramic spoon that seemed to be a set with the bowl as they shared a similar motif -that of blue flowers- and dropped it inside.

He took the bowl in his left hand, the plate in his right, and headed outside the kitchen.

He passed by the innkeeper who had an unpleasant scowl in his ugly face. To the Witcher's surprise, he didn't attempt anything.

"Hey lads, looky 'ere." The bald patron said with a laugh, prompting Urick to stop walking "The Witcher's doing the wench 'ere heh, heh."

"Hey freak, why don'd ya clean the floor where you're ad id haha, ha, ha." The noseless one mocked further. It almost made the Witcher lose his balance and drop the things he carried as anger started boiling inside him.

"Why don't you drop by as well?" Horseshoe mustache said, unlike his fellows, his tone lacked any joviality as he spoke "I want you to suck my cock."

Horseshoe mustache's degrading suggestion managed to elicit a reaction from the Witcher, one that spilled some of the water from the bowl he carried in its abruptness, thankfully not enough to warrant refilling. He turned to look at the patrons, specifically, at Horseshoe Mustache himself, his golden cat-like eyes narrow and full of malevolence.

"Hey! Watchid ya fuckin-" the innkeeper never finished his sentence as Horseshoe Mustache stood up aggressively and loudly slapped his hands at the table.

Mutant and man stare at each other for a few seconds. Each one's eyes held a nasty promise for the other, none of them blinked.

"Hey, I'm not 'avin dis shite again two-night!" barked the innkeeper "Iv ya two wanna kill each other. Then geddid outside!"

The Witcher and Horseshoe both ignored the innkeeper and kept glaring at each other, not saying a single word. After a short while Horseshoe's friends began staring at the Witcher as well, perhaps not as aggressively as him, but their looks told Urick that they were ready for a fight.

The Witcher… gave them a wide and goofy grin.

Baldy's expression turned less serious and No-nose choked out a laugh. "Something funny bitchboy?" said Horseshoe after a short while. Unlike his friends who eased up somewhat -and in general didn't seem to be edging for a fight as much- his face was completely serious, his eyes narrow, and his tone threatening – He was asking for a beating.

"I'll turn to the" Urick stretched his next word "lady first." He said in as friendly a tone as could manage and pointed at the waitress's direction with his head "Then I'll come suck your cock." The Witcher's last line was delivered in a much lower volume "Just be patient handsome." He finished, then turned around and resumed walking back at his table as originally intended. He decided that his pride wasn't as precious a thing to him at this hour as a bed was. For tonight at least. Tomorrow though, who knows?

"Yes, go 'ide behind Fiona's skirts you chickenshit." Horseshoe said from behind the Witcher. One of his friends -Urick wasn't sure who- started making chicken-like sounds – or at least made an effort to, since he sounded more like a harpy chick, appropriately enough.

Urick managed to get to the table without farther interruptions.

He placed the bowl and plate in front of the waitress. She was still clutching at her belly, but not as tightly as before, sweat was still clinging on her face and hands.

The waitress looked at what lie before her with a look that Urick could only describe as a combination of curiosity and apprehension "What is all that?" she asked, her tone far from friendly.

The Witcher chose not to answer and simply sat on the bench opposite of her.

Urick picked up the bundle full of peppermint leaves he left on the table earlier. He brought the bowl closer to him. Unwrapped the bundle, and, one by one, began dropping the contents in the water. Once they were enough inside, he began stirring the mixture using the wooden spoon to mix it thoroughly.

"What are you doing, what is this?" the unfriendly tone the waitress insisted on using prompted the Witcher to pause and raise his eyes to look at her. Her expression matched her tone – irritated and distrustful.

Urick started to seriously question his judgment looking at her face now. _"What the hell am I even doing this for?"_ he asked a rhetorical question in his mind and frowned.

"What?" huffed the waitress. Her expression seemed to also be an attempt to mask her pain.

The Witcher didn't answer. He lowered his eyes, and returned to the task at hand.

Once the tea was finally ready, Urick presented it to the young woman.

She lowered her head, eyeing the mixture suspiciously.

The Witcher rested his arms on the table. "Drink." he said after three seconds passed.

The waitress raised her eyes "What is? One of your, Potions?" she asked, just as indignantly as before, her face twitched with pain for moment towards the end of her sentence.

"No. It is not." He informed her, his tone clear, but he let a hint of annoyance to slip through his words "Now drink."

"What is then? What did you put inside?"

The Witcher was losing patience. "Peppermint leaves." he managed to say, calmly enough, and without any slips in his accent.

She took a look at the bowl again and then back at the Witcher "You're lying." She accused, her eyes narrowed "I know what pepper is – lived in Maribor you know. And are those tiny black baubles you put in food for seasoning, harvested from an Eefret once its flames had been ek- ek-"

"An elk?" offered the Witcher, not at all seriously, he struggled not to laugh.

"Ek-stink-wished."

Urick suppressed the need to facepalm (hard!) at the young woman's unwarranted paranoia – not to mention the absurd and ridiculously wrong information only her gods know where she got from. In the end, he failed to choke out a soft giggle. He leaned back and folded his arms.

"What's so funny?!"

"It's 'extinguished'."

"Huh?"

"What you try to say. It's spelled 'ex-tin-guised' not 'ek-stink-wished.'" The Witcher felt strange for once being the one to correct someone else over a subject different than post-Conjunction creatures. It was such a pleasurable feeling. Being considered 'dumb as a rock troll–or drowner' by most people in his life, friends and lovers included, it felt nice to be the 'smart one' in a conversation for a change, even to a random peasant woman who most likely was uneducated.

The waitress grimaced unpleasantly at being made a fool of. She began sweating again. "I don't fucking care about any- Agh- spellings." She said, pain returning to her face "I'm not drinking any of those-" she put her hands in her abdomen "those poisons you-" And once again she lowered her head, clutching tightly at her aching belly.

Urick smiled contemptuously at the young woman's suffering, his patience has been exhausted.

After allowing him a few precious seconds to savor her pain the Witcher spoke to the waitress. "You know what," he giggled, facing away from her, the mocking smile not leaving his face "I felt like doing a kindness to you. Because… because fuck it that's why, I just felt like it, call it whatever you want. But," he turned back to the waitress and leaned forward "since this is how you want things to be" his expression changed into a frown then "I hope you spew your guts on the floor, bitch!" The Witcher was done with his less-than-supportive speech, sealing it for good by taking a slice of toasted bread, leaned right back, and began munching on it.

No counter-speech came from the young woman as she was way too busy clutching at her belly in what she undoubtedly believed to be an effective way of keeping the contents of her stomach from spilling out. Urick was sure that time won't be too long now. The only thing she managed to do in the end as a protest was to raise her eyes to give, what the Witcher was sure meant to be, an angry look, but since she was so obviously in pain it only made her look more pathetic. She began sweating, once again.

Urick kept munching on the toast, making as much noise as possible simply to annoy the waitress. Velma hated those sounds so much that she started casting Silence on him each time they had breakfast together… The young woman was no mage though, and could do nothing to muffle the sounds the Witched was making without resulting to physical force, and in her current state, that was unlikely. Not that she would be able to if she was any healthier of course. She was but a meek peasant woman… _"Velma was more 'raw-bust' than her"_ a smile lightened up the right side of the Witcher's face for that brief moment _"Not to mention taller, a head almost,"_ he went on, comparing the two women's bodies in his mind, chewing, slowly, and absentmindedly _"with longer, thicker legs… The waitress's are the better ones."_ Urick though… said to himself… not exactly confident that he actually agreed, since his member got a little bit stiffer remembering how the enchantress used to lock her legs behind his neck while he held her upside-down. _"Fiona has a much better pair of tits though – meatier and juicier."_ the Witcher recalled the waitress's name as he admired her superior rack, he could not currently see it of course due to the woolen-something covering her, but that image won't be leaving his mind any time soon. _"Mel's were pretty average. Wasn't a dealbreaker, they went well with her toned body, but considering. She. Was. A Sorceress. An average rack left something to be desired. Her ass though…"_ The Witcher's face twitched _"She won't even let me fuck her there! Damned witch."_ Urick pushed what remained of the toast aggressively in his mouth and began crunching noisily. He crossed his arms, frowning all the while. It angered him that despite more than a year had passed since their 'brake up' he still hasn't completely got over her.

The Witcher concluded that he tortured himself enough for one night and decided to fully focus his attention to the waitress.

Fiona's situation hasn't improved in the least. And Urick relished in that. _For if he could not savor her cunt, he could at least savor her pain._ He finally swallowed. "Oh, almost forgot." The Witcher smiled nastily as a terrible idea came to him now that the innkeep wasn't behind the counter. He leaned forward. "You don't want this right?" he extended his hand towards the bowl, intending to spill its contents and then threw it on the floor as well to leave a whole new mess for her to clean up.

Before he managed to move the bowl enough though, the waitress grabbed it, touching his hand as well "Wait." She said, her tone not exactly desperate but definitely more needy than before, her eyes too.

Urick hated being touched without permission. He was tempted to just force her hand away and do as he originally intended but lost his nerve when the young woman's eyes shut again. Pain was returning to her face.

"Would this potion really cure me?" Fiona asked, her voice lower than before, her eyes betraying mounting desperation.

 _"I really am asking for it!"_ Urick berated himself internally, rolling his eyes as well. "It's no Potion," he said, annoyance gripping at his voice "I wouldn't give you one of my elixirs – they'll kill you. At best."

"Then what- mgh" the young woman's winced in pain, her grip on the Witcher's hand tightened "is that?"

The Witcher let out a heavy sigh before continuing "Just an herbal tea. Won't cure you on the spot or anything, but it helps with nausea and stomach aches. There is nothing that is dangerous for you in it." Urick explained, trying his best to keep his tone as calm and friendly as possible. He didn't expect her to trust him… But he decided to give her one last chance to accept his help. He really hoped he won't regret this one act of selflessness.

Fiona didn't say anything, nor did she retract her hand. She just shot the Witcher a rather mistrustful look.

A few seconds passed and both the Witcher and the waitress stayed where they were. Both holding the bowl along with its other's hand, and keep glaring at each other. The whole scene was becoming awkward, and not in the pleasant way. "Listen," Urick spoke "if it gets cold, it won't be of much help. So start drinking." He argued. The bowl was indeed feeling less warm than before but that wasn't really a problem since he can always boil the water again using Igni. But, he really wanted her to stop griping at his hand like that, as she reminded him of that fisstech addict he came across in the docks during his third night in Novigrad, begging and nagging him for a few coins for 'medicine.' The fact that she smelled as well wasn't helping the comparison the Witcher was making in his mind at the moment.

No changes yet.

"If you really like suffering so much, can I at least drink it, so it won't go to waste?" Urick said in a fake jovial tone, only to change to a much bitter one as he kept talking "Since, you know… I went in all the fucking trouble of making it for you!"

Fiona finally let go of the Witcher's hand. She then took the bowl in both her hands and brought it closer – with as careful and delicate movement as when she caught her serving disc earlier. Urick couldn't help but notice this since her movements weren't as 'refined', so to speak, when serving in general.

Fiona lowered her eyes, and, once again, began staring suspiciously at the contents inside the ceramic vessel. She soon she raised her eyes, to shoot the Witcher another mistrustful look.

Urick wanted to get angry… But he just couldn't. Instead he put his left hand on his face, covering the entire left side of it, closed his eyes, and began making laughing sounds – with the mouth closed. The whole thing was just so ridiculously pointless, pathetic and stupid he could not even feel offended anymore.

"What's so funny?" the waitress asked, totally serious.

Urick promptly opened his still visible eye. _"What's so funny, she asks."_ He thought looking at the waitress _"These folk are as dumb as they are suspicious of outsiders. The trolls here are way more civilized than them."_ As he thought that, his mind immediately went to Boris. That rock troll was probably the nicest person he met since coming here. He still killed him in the end of course but that was beside the point. To think that a representative of this race of dimwitted brutes could come off as sensible -in that peculiar trollish way- when put besides the 'people' of these lands only managed to reinforce the hilarity of the situation.

As his 'laughing' grew more audible, Fiona's eyes began narrowing. She was about to say something but the Witcher spoke first "Please tell me" Urick moved his hand away from his face "do all witchers get this 'nice' treatment from you" he laughed "or is there something reeeally wrong with my face?"

The young woman's face twisted into a grimace… but it was different than before somehow. It wasn't mistrust coupled with annoyance like before. "My cousin Lena" Fiona uttered suddenly, her voice raspy "took a potion from one of yours." Her voice began quivering from then on "Was supposed to help her. Instead it- it turned her into a- a-" the young woman struggled with the next word "it destroyed her mind." She said in the end, though it was obvious that she was going to say something different originally, judging by the wording. "She couldn't even recognize me. I have to remind her who I was. And every day she was getting worse… The last time I saw her she didn't even speak – as if forgotten how to, she just… stared at me like a toddler."

And just like that, all joviality has left the Witcher's face, and replaced by his usual, passive, emotionless mask. He definitely expected some sort of reaction from Fiona. Just not this one. He leaned back again and crossed his arms.

Urick looked at the young woman in the eyes. "He shouldn't have." he said, his voice came out as a whisper almost "Whatever his reasons were, he shouldn't have given her a Potion." He repeated more clearly. "Our elixirs are not meant for" the Witcher averted his eyes for that one moment "humans." he said, that last word felt like something stacked in the Witcher's throat, choking him, as he uttered it. Despite the years passed, Urick still had difficulties when attempting to dissociate himself from humanity. It both frustrated and angered him to be constantly regarded as something else than human, _**by humans**_ , human mages especially, who stubbornly and proudly insisted in calling him 'it' and refusing him any personhood. Most Witchers didn't have a problem with it -They even accepted it as the truth- but he did. "And…" Urick paused "I am…" he paused again. He licked his lower lip "I am sorry about your cousin." He finally managed to say. It was strange, to say the least. He didn't remember when was the last time he offered words of sympathy to anyone. Empathy wasn't coming naturally to him anymore like when he was younger. Things like violence, thievery, murder, and rape that he once saw as terrible crimes now he simply saw as mere flaws of character – He wasn't above them himself sometimes… But things like compassion, camaraderie, and selflessness just seemed… so strange… alien somehow now.

Fiona gave the Witcher an ambiguous look. While not initially sure as of how to interpret it, after a few seconds passed, Urick could make out one thing: It wasn't hostile. Her features had softened. _A nice change,_ he thought.

The young woman brought the bowl closer, raised it above the table's surface with both her hands, and, _FINALLY_ , began drinking the tea.

"Praise be to the G-" _"Great Sun."_ Urick almost said "Gods."

* * *

 **The Wyvern Witcher** **–** **Codex**

 **Bonus story: The Wyvern School's Bestiary – Unique Monsters – Page 228**

* * *

 **BAMBI**

 **Class:** Relicts

 **Variation:** Fiend

 **\- Unique Features:** Reddish-brown skin with black stripes, an extra pair of antlers for a total of four, white fur, larger eyes

 **\- Height:** Around 8m at the shoulders

 **\- Weight:** Around 3500kg

 **Intelligence:** Undetermined – While originally thought to be as intelligent as any other Fiend specimen -namely no more than your average bear- the various reports provided by the novices that passed the Trial of the Forest suggest that the so-called 'Bambi' may have developed higher cognitive functions unprecedented in the species, including the capacity to correctly access danger and eliminate the highest immediate threat, lay in wait to ambush pray, and even the cunning to utilize its surroundings to its advantage during a fight.

 **Organization:** Solitary

 **Occurrence:** The Murmuring Wood

 **Threat level:** Severe

 **Immunities:** Aard, Axii, King and Queen

 **Resistances:** Meteorite Steel, Silver, Poison

 **Recommended Kit:**

• **Potions:** Cat, Blizzard, Willow

• **Decoctions:** Werewolf

• **Bombs:** Samum, Zerrikanian Sun, Red Haze, Dimeritium bomb

Also known as the King of Murmuring Wood. And it's fairly easy to know when his majesty is coming. Earth trembles beneath his feet, and, with the exception of wraiths, once close every other beast in the area will scatter away in terror. Regardless of the situation.

To the point at hand, I don't know if Bambi was ever a flamboyant elven king that insulted his witch-wife by sagging her little sister as the old story goes -and I highly doubt's it- what I know is that this Fiend is a king in his own domain – and wears the crown to prove it. A crown fit for a king indeed, in the form of four enormous antlers that can skewer up to three grown men each. A more effective symbol a ruler could not have asked for. Humor aside, I survived my encounter with the monster during the infamous Trail of the Forest. I didn't fought it, I run away from it. I was with three of my broodbrothers and we barely escaped with our lives, by sacrificing one as a distraction. Cowardly, cruel you think? It was both. But otherwise there would be four dead witcher novices instead of just one. And yes we had studied Fiends by the time of the Trial, and if you honestly think that we should of have been fine then, you are WRONG. We thought as well that conventional tactics would work on it. So I'm telling you upfront: THEY DIDN'T. You may think 'I've lost count of how many varieties of Griffin, Fiend, Cyclops, and Leshen I've killed all these years. What this big deer has that is so special compared to them?' Well, let me break it down for you – And pay attention!

First of all, Bambi is twice as big as your average Fiend (you didn't misread the above) and twice as heavy or more—A real mountain of muscle—yet quicker than one would expect for a creature of such size and heft. I see him topple tall trees, and he is perfectly capable of destroy the toughest fortifications – Want proof? Go check the original headquarters of the School of the Wyvern by the Fiery Mountains. After taking our old seat for themselves, the Nilfgaardian army sent a patrol in the Murmuring Wood. The men never came back naturally, so the commander decided to sent out a search party, a rather large one. A few soldiers returned, beaten, some mutilated, and at the brink of madness. I swear for all the mistrust they harbor for the mages in their ranks, the blackclad legions are surprisingly fond of using fire as their favorite means of getting rid of a problem as long as it's not the magical kind. And that's where they erred. Bambi had never attacked our fortress, NEVER ventured beyond the Murmuring Wood's borders. But he did once his new neighbors decided to burn his home to the ground~~/

Go and see the end results for yourselves.

Like all Fiends, Bambi has the ability to regenerate. But the true danger in his case is that silver doesn't work as it should be. Normally, silver blocks regeneration long enough to give us a chance against any Post-Conjunction creatures that posses it but that's not the case with him. Silver can harm him, but it doesn't halt his regeneration, and not nearly enough to do any significant damage – he is not afraid of it either, so don't waste your time with Moon Dust. The only way your silver sword could serve you against the so-called 'King of Murmuring Wood' it would be as a projectile, aiming at his eyes, that it'll give you some time, hope you're good at calculating distances. More importantly, DON'T - I repeat - DON'T use any poisoned weapons against him; I don't know how the fuck is that even possible but somehow once enough poison enters his bloodstream, his speed and reaction time increases to the point that it's almost impossible to dodge his attacks without Blizzard, and I haven't seen any evidence that suggest that poison can kill him. I cannot speak about the effectiveness of poisonous gasses though.

Scared yet? You should be. I left the best for last. The last special thing about Bambi is how he uses the most refined weapon nature has granted his species. Like all Fiends he can hypnotize his pray to leave it vulnerable, but unlike other Fiends all three of his eyes have this power. Worse yet he doesn't need to 'charge' that power – the effect is instantaneous. The only indications you have that he is attempting to hypnotize you are his eyes themselves, which pupils shrink during that time. Those hellish eyes will be the last things you'll see before you're plunged into a world of darkness, staring at the towering monstrosity before you. You'll be thinking that since all three of his eyes have the power to hypnotize that means that you'll get three visible signs of his location instead of one when under the 'spell.' You're right. Except he closes them during that time, stays put, and uses his acute hearing and sense of smell to locate you, and once the opportunity presents itself, he'll charge. I really hope you paid close attention to your surroundings.

Now about how to fight Bambi?

 **DON'T.**

Avoid him like you will a Dragon or Higher Vampire. No witcher fought him and lived to tell the tale.

The gear I recommended above is not listed so as to give you a fighting chance against the beast but a surviving one.

Few advices that I can give you:

For once, mask your scent. Bambi has a keen sense of smell and he can never make a mistake when it comes to witchers – He's been killing and eating us Wyverns for centuries after all.

If an engagement can't be avoided, no matter what, always keep your eyes on Bambi's feet and keep close attention to his movements if you are about to evade an attack. Be especially wary of his charge attack, he will fall back first, usually with a leap the sheer weight of can cause tremors that if caught you off-guard will make you lose your balance. The Willow potion is invaluable in that case, even more during the attack itself. Once Bambi begins to charge, Willow is the only guarantee that you will stay on your feet, as each time he charges at high speed its like an earthquake.

Refrain from using the Quen Sign. It will only drain you, and won't help you survive an encounter with this monster; it'll break the magical shield effortlessly and kill you at the same time in one blow. Horns, claws, teeth, it doesn't matter, all he needs is to land a single hit and then it's over. No fortification potion will change that, so refrain from using them as well. Nothing sort of a mage's barrier will manage to withstand his attacks, and not for long.

Make liberal use of the bombs in the list above. Despite all his 'unique features' Bambi is still a Fiend, and as such, he is afraid of loud noises. Red Haze may seem redundant to you since when 'the king' comes other monsters run away in fear, but it is in fact your best tool if you are to make a successful escape. There is specific place in the woods that the specters of fallen Wyvern novices gather in numbers. Once you enter there, hold long enough, these wraiths are challenging but you are more likely to survive an encounter with them. Keep your senses sharp, especially your hearing, and once Bambi is within range throw the madness-inducing bomb at him. His attention will go to the wraiths, giving you more than enough time to run away.

Bambi is not exactly weak to fire, but if you draw from a Place of Power charged with that element (or you are from a School which Trials granted you with more magic power and more importantly you are good at running and casting at the same time), aim at his face, it'll damage his eyes long enough to grant you a window to outmaneuver him and advance.

If you are going to outrun the aberrant Fiend, the Werewolf Decoction coupled with Willow is your best friend. He is persistent, but not enough so to be at your heel for a whole day, and, barring the 'burn the whole Murmuring Wood down' incident of the Nilfgaardian army, he never chased someone beyond his 'kingdom's' borders.

That's all the tips I can give you.

Avoid the Murmuring Wood at all costs and ignore any contracts associated with a Fiend in it.

The only acceptable reward one could ask for hunting Bambi down is a whole Province. Anything less is not worth certain death.

(...)

I hope his imperial new majesty Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd, fills extra generous after finally sitting his ass on the Sun Throne. May he die in pain and treachery just like his father.

 _~ Signed by Elrik of Viroleda, former Witcher of the School of the Wyvern_


	4. Draconic emblem - Malevolence

**/**

* * *

 **The Wyvern Witcher**

 **Story Arc One: Grim Up North**

 **Chapter 4: Draconic emblem - part 3: Malevolence**

* * *

 **Malorik, the Bard**

Slowly, Malorik's eyes began to open, his consciousness returning to him. His head and jaw were both hurting, and he could feel the latter touching something, a strange, bitter taste was in his mouth.

 _"What the-… Where I-? … What happened?"_ The Bard wondered. He tried to recall what happened but his aching head made concentrating difficult.

The first thing he witnessed was fire.

As his eyes opened up completely and his head started to feel a little less hazy the whole scene was becoming clearer.

 _"A camp-fire"_ he realized.

He began looking around…

As he tried to move, he was struck with two sudden and unpleasant realizations: first) that his jaw was in fact touching the ground, and second) that his hands and legs were both tied.

"Ahhhh" Suddenly a voice was heard. He turned his head towards the source.

Behind the camp-fire -on the opposite side from Malorik- a man was sitting down in a strange kneeling position with his eyes closed, his head held low… He seemed familiar… As the Bard tried his best to remember who that man was he became aware of the position his body was currently in: on the ground, lying down.

"You've awaken" said the man, with eyes still shut "I was wondering if you would wake up at all" as he said that, the man opened his eyes, revealing unnaturally yellow, cat-like eyes…

 _"…The Witcher!"_ it finally returned to him. He also recalled how the mutant punched him in the face, twice, for seemingly no reason.

The Witcher stood up. "You should consider yourself fortunate you know" he began, his voice had what could only be described as a cheery edge to it, it surprised the Bard. "You still have most of your teeth" he said and started walking; slowly coming towards Malorik's way "I've lost most of my strength in that dungeon I mentioned on the road. A few months ago, a single punch of mine would be enough to render you unconscious and knock out four or five of your teeth. Two…" the Witcher let out a soft giggle – the more the mutant's behavior was deviating from the expected norm the more the Bard's fear was growing. He had heard and read many a witcher tale -from books, hearsay, badly composed ballads, a stage play once- and while these sources offered contradictory information, they all seem to agree that they were, at the very least, intelligent, reasonable creatures not resorting to violence unless they've no other choice. Yet this one's behavior made no sense at all… And his voice… was strange. _Where have Malorik heard that accent before?_

"Well…" the Witcher began circling the fire from the right, coming closer, his pace slow and ominous, looking at him; amidst shadow and fire his eyes were shining, making him look downright demonic… That image alone would have been perfect as an early point of the ballad that Malorik planned to compose.

The Witcher was finally standing in front of the Bard "…Let's just say that, then, that you would reeaaly need to make an appointment with the nearest dentist" he continued from where he left, the amusement in his voice was unmistakable "And possibly a surgeon as well" he added with a smile.

The Witcher hunched over and looked down, bringing himself on a more equal level with his bound captive. He looked him in the eyes. Even before becoming a wandering minstrel, Malorik always had an eye for beauty -be it in women, or men, or even monsters _(Succubusess and Mermaids in particular)_ \- and as he took a good look at the mutant's face up-close there was no doubt that **HE was an ugly man.** Possibly one of the ugliest he had ever lay eyes upon. He did not pay much attention to his appearance earlier since he was too caught up in the prospect of gathering new and interesting stories from him to broaden his repertoire – that had began to dangerously stagnate as of late. But right now it was difficult not to pay attention: Apart from the unpleasant-to-the-eye dark complexion that made him look like a vagrant _(Which, I guess, he was),_ everyone who would look at him in those unnatural eyes of his for long enough could easily tell that there were obviously not his – as if someone had carefully removed the originals and put those there. He had many scars on his face, but the most prominent _(and hideous)_ was the large, deep one on the left side, starting high from his forehead and running down to his chin, parting his eyebrow and lips from that side as well, there was another less prominent one on the right side as well, this one started low from the chin, diagonally, and stopped a little below the eye – the way the two scars were touching one another gave the impression that someone tried to carve a large 'V' on the mutant's face, he was also missing half his left ear, and there were some difficult to miss scars on his neck as well, and his head sported a lot of grey hair -way more than it sported black, especially from the right side- despite not looking that old – thirty-three? Perhaps forty, he appeared to be, making him look even more uncanny.

"Not that that would matter in a couple of hours" the Witcher said in low voice then, without any warning, grabbed Malorik roughly by the shoulders, lift him up, and, just as roughly, put him back on the ground, sitting. His behind landed in some kind of rock formation; some of the rocks were sharp, he felt them biting at his buttocks.

"Ouch! You bastard son of a poxy whore!" cursed Malorik "May the plaque of syphilis -Fear to all men- Most foul and agonizing, fall on your unmentionables and spread like… " Malorik kept spouting the vilest curses that he knew, forging them into a malicious poem that he would have gladly recited in front of a big audience, should more people were more open-minded about the definition of art. He heard that simple hate or ill-will were all that needed to inflict a curse on someone. And the hate he currently felt for the mutant right now was immense. _For his most treacherous blows definitely blemished his previously perfect, immaculate face!_

The mutated freak laughed, completely unfazed at Malorik's malevolent tirade. His laugh could fit the description of any villain's in any epic tale.

…After a while, Malorik became aware of the reason behind the freak's amusement: He was gagged as well.

"I knew you were in love with your own voice but," the freak let out a mocking titter "Seriously."

The minstrel's eyes narrowed at the comment. His singing once made an elven maiden weep. Of course he is proud of it! He had every right!

"I think we should reintroduce ourselves" the freak said in fake polite tone "I'm called Urick, not Varamir. Urick… of Neunreuth" the Witcher 'reintroduced' himself -he could not sound any more cordial- and bow… but not like a Northman.

Malorik's eyes widen as he finally recognized the mutant's accent. It was Nilfgaardian.

The Witcher straightened himself then. "Not that I was born there mind you." he continued "But it was there where, She, make me… a free man." the mutant really stressed the words 'she' and 'free' "So I kept it. As some sort of honorific."

The black one obviously was in the mood to talk, but Malorik wasn't, so he fell abruptly towards the left. As his body collided with the ground he let out a groan – or he would have, have he been not muzzled.

He tried to crawl his way out. He heard a soft laugh; he knew it was the freak's.

After a short while he heard a sigh, then steps. The mutant was coming his way.

Malorik's attempted escape was soundly interrupted as he was roughly grabbed by the hair, his face lifted from the ground, pulled back, enough so that he'll meet his captor's gaze. "I knew you weren't very sharp from the moment we've met…" the freak had the audacity to deliver his insult with a chastising tone. Then, he punched him in the stomach, hard, Malorik's eyes shut tightly in response to the pain. "But I must confess, I didn't think you were that thick either." the Witcher said with a grant, and started dragging the minstrel back at the camp-fire, by the hair.

When finally back, he let him fall to the ground, sideways. The pain of the fist caused the minstrel to curl up; he wished he could put his hands on his belly to cushion it.

Once the pain has subsided somewhat, Malorik turn to see that the Witcher was sitting opposite of him -a little more to right from where he was originally sitting- completely on the minstrel's line of sight.

"Don't you try to do something like that again, or I'll tie your hands and legs together." The mutant warned Malorik in a serious tone.

Despite the threat, the minstrel was determined to at least attempt to sit properly. _He won't be lying on the ground like a worm in the presence of a black one!_

It proved arduous but he was determined. Despite the freak's laughing at his attempts for defiance.

…And he managed. He sat uptight, leaning his head slightly forward, glaring at his captor.

"Well…" the mongrel let out an annoying laugh before continuing "Now I can see why you managed to push our legions back three times in row." He said, and clapped sarcastically. "Not bad. For a bunch of superstitious, violent, and uneducated goatfuckers." He spitefully added, and his butt-ugly face twisted somewhat, making him look even uglier.

Malorik felt good for be able to strike a nerve, however small, and without saying anything, he smiled behind the piece of cloth that was used to muzzle him. "Better a bunch of superstitious, violent, and uneducated goatfuckers." he began "Than a bunch of villains that invade other countries to rape, pillage, and burn simply because they can! And you scam got the nerve to call US barbarians! Despite your greater numbers, we've defeated you—three times in a row–Three!—And we will keep defeating you -three, four, five, six- as many a time as it takes. Because justice always triumphs in the end! And one day, you can be sure, we will bring the fight to the heart of your evil empire and give you a full taste of what suffering you brought upon us over the years! Plus tenfold!"

Malorik's 'speech' managed to draw another soft giggle from the Witcher "Please, ha, ha, ha, go on" mocked the freak, completely unimpressed "I've always liked those kinds of conversations."

The minstrel was now even more determined to not to make things easier for his captor. He fell back and tried to crawl his way out again, merely to inconvenience him.

"Malorik," sighed the mutant "stop doing things more difficult for yourself. You are going to die soon enough, might as well be in comfort."

 _"…Die?"_ at the mere mention of the word Malorik stopped _"Die… Who's dying? …M-me dying?"_ the minstrel began to panic _"He'll kill me? B-but why would he? I did nothing to him. And he definitely took my coin purse along with all my instruments – Why would he kill me?!"_ Malorik felt like an imbecile for thinking the last question. _Why would he kill him? Because he is an emotionless mutant as well as a black one, he doesn't need a reason!_

"I see I've got your attention now." Malorik felt a hand on his shoulder as he heard that. The Witcher turned him around, without any excessive force this time. Their eyes met once again.

"Don't look at me like that." said the Witcher, very casually "I am not the one who will kill you."

Hearing that didn't fill the minstrel with hope in the slightest. If anything, it filled him with dread. For Malorik had managed to earn wrath as well as adoration from various peoples of interest over the years. Many of them noble ladies that felt that their status gave them entitlement over his person after one—or two, or three—night(s) of passion and conveniently forgetting that he informed them firsthand that **He** belonged to all women of the world – so long as they were beautiful of course, but many of those spoiled harpies choose to ignore that important piece of information and demanded his immediate incarceration, none of them demanded his head though… except that one duke Ferdynand in Temeria, after the 'violation' of his fifteen-year old daughter, offering a fat purse of coin for everyone who could bring his head back to him, double if he could brought him alive. Was this Witcher in his employ?

"They will." the mutant smiled as he spoke and turned his head to the left, the minstrel followed the direction his eyes pointed at.

…But he saw only a cliff.

The Witcher did not clarified, instead he throw Malorik over his shoulder and curried him like a shack of wheat back at the camp.

"You know, you should be happy about it." the Witcher unceremoniously dropped Malorik on the ground after saying that, very close by the fire. The Bard shut his eyes and made pained moaning sounds as he landed, he thrashed around.

"Your songs utterly suck!" hearing that, the Bard opened his eyes to look at where his captor was, rage overcoming the pain.

But soon his rage turned to terror as he saw that the mutant reached for his sword.

The Witcher was coming his way, sword in hand.

Afraid for his own life, the Bard panicked. He tried to escape once again.

The Witcher sped up this time; he reached up to him, grabbed him by the hair again, yanked him back, and kicked him in the stomach. "It's quite obvious that your good looks kept you fed up until now." he said. Malorik was incapable of responding in any way he would have liked, he just reacted to the pain.

"And now…" the Witcher put his boot on Malorik's chest and turn him over with a soft push "you don't even have that."

After a short while the Bard opened his eyes, the Witcher was standing over him, regarding him with a smug smile on his face.

"What?" he tilted his head "You don't believe me?" He asked and then went for his sword.

To his great embarrassment, Malorik wet himself as the blade was drawn from the scabbard. He shut his eyes tight, tears started falling from them. _He was a man of the North, yet he failed to live up to it, he was never truly brave, deep down he knew that._ He braced himself for the inevitable…

…But it never came.

"See for yourself" he heard the black one's voice.

Malorik found the courage to open his eyes; he saw the sword's blade, half-draw from the scabbard. And in its polished surface, he saw his own reflection…

…And fainted.

 **/**

 **[- THREE MONTH** **S AGO -]**

 **/**

 **Urick of Neunreuth**

The waitress kept drinking the tea, making annoying slurping sounds as she did.

The Witcher took the chance to make a face when she wasn't looking. He did not like those sounds at all; a part of him suspected that she was actually doing it on purpose just to spite him, or perhaps as payback for before when he was noisily munching on the toasted bread… Whatever the case might be he was still satisfied that his efforts haven't completely gone to waste.

The young woman put the bowl down, the look on her face made clear that she did not enjoy the taste in the slightest.

Urick leaned slightly forward and used his left hand to support his head in a sagely fashion, it did not suit him at all admittedly, but he always wanted to try that, to seem more… sophisticated, he did not really remembered when he first saw that gesture, but he liked it. "No medicine is ever tasty." He said the young woman in a tone that matched the gesture, it drew her attention. "You'll need to keep taking this for a few more days" he continued "Are there any herbalists in the area?"

Instead of answering Fiona shot the Witcher an ambiguous look.

"…" Slowly, Urick's calm expression changed into a frown. He hated all manner of things he could not immediately discern – be it expressions or words "Didn't hear me, or didn't understand me?" he asked, his southern accent almost slipped as he felt rage boiling up inside him for there was a third option here, and if the young woman takes it, the bowl in front of her will become her new hat. He could only take that much unwarranted hostility.

Fiona lowered her gaze, she wasn't looking at the bowl though, her expression softened, but only a little.

She raised her eyes after a few seconds "Thankyou" she said, way too fast, and immediately looked back down again, a sour look on her face.

While the young woman's reaction was miles away from what the Witcher had expected it did not exactly make him feel all that much better. "What did you say? Sorry, I did not hear you there." he asked, a subtle mockery in his otherwise casual tone. He lied of course; he understood perfectly what she meant to say.

"I said" Fiona raised her eyes then to look at him again "Thank. You." she repeated, clearly, her tone firm, with a matching expression.

Urick found her second attempt at a 'thank you' much more chuckle-worthy than the first one that came out as one word; he did not laugh nor smiled though "Really?" he said, his voice dripping with derision "That's what you said? Strange. I could swear I heard something that sounded a lot like, 'fuck you.'"

"Hey!" snapped the waitress, her voice rose, but only slightly "I'm, trying to be nice to you 'ere." she paused and put her right hand in her abdomen before continuing "All aright… be greatvull." her face twisted with pain again as she finished, almost forming a grimace.

"'Trying to be nice?', 'Be grateful?'" the Witcher let out an obnoxious laugh as he repeated the young woman's absurdities _"Do all these barbarians honestly think that simple good manners are worth a reward or something?"_ "I can JUST imagine. How would you have treated me, if I haven't actually made all these for you." he said venomously and made a gesture with his right hand that meant to highlight what was on the table.

Fiona's eyes narrowed, sharply. The Witcher could not tell if it was due to pain, or anger, or both – his coin was on both. "Aye. You did." she began; once again with a few seconds delay and a less than pleasant look on her face "Out of the kindness of your heart I wager – You think me that stupid?"

Urick was really tempted to give an honest answer to that question but he managed to keep his mouth shut. Behind his tightly sealed lips though, his teeth were clenching.

"I can see where you go with this." She said, and stopped talking, as if to make a point.

Urick's eyes began narrowing themselves, threateningly. "And…" he began in a low voice, putting his hands on the table in front of him "where, am I -tchk- going with this exactly?"

"Somewhere I don't." answered the waitress, her attitude completely unchanged "And don't play dumb with me, I know what you want." She added.

The Witcher's hands were clenching into fists – the fact that Fiona seemed to have completely gotten over her pain just so that she can be even more of a bitch to him wasn't exactly helping things. To say the least.

"I ain't fall so low yet as to spread my legs for remorseless killers that take advantage of the poor and desperate to snatch away what little they still 'ave in times of 'unger. Or take their children if they cannot -"

The Witcher finally had enough; he slammed a fist on the table, shocking and startling the dumb northern bitch into silence. "Riight." He glared maliciously at her, his voice came out as a growl "Guess I should have just forced you to my knees and start groping you without asking," he then pointed with a cock of his head "like your 'friends' did back there." As he did that he shot a look at the table where the three unpleasant men were sitting still, drinking, they didn't appear to have noticed anything as they were laughing at the moment. From here on out Urick tried his best to keep his tone low, enough so that nobody else save the stupid wench could hear him "Though if I was to do that, I wouldn't have stopped just there." he continued, despite significantly lowering his voice, it did not lack in hostility "I would have rip off your clothes -beat you bloody should you resist- and then fuck you till your holes become loose enough to take an extra prick each."

"…" The wench's eyes widened at the Witcher's unexpected outburst… She stood perfectly still for a few seconds, before finally swallowing, really anxiously. Urick could hear her heart pounding.

"…" She kept staring at him with eyes wide, seemingly paralyzed, making no noise whatsoever.

After a few more minutes passed more the wench finally spoke, or tried to. "I- I s-s-scream… iff you, tried." She managed to say, not very well as her voice was shaking. Soon enough, her hands began shaking too.

The Witcher let out a laugh, a nasty, dejected laugh "You're way dumber than you look if you think that that would have saved you girl." Urick failed to keep his voice low from here on out – the fact that this slattern half-accepted the sexual harassment and near-rape at the hands of the three— _much uglier compared to him_ —patrons previously while she got offended at his subtle advances because he was a mutant was enough to drive him even more mad with anger. "If I wanted to have my way with you, I dear say: Nobody in this village would have been able to stop me!" he finished…

And it felt good… Really good… Putting some of the poison out. He actually felt a little calmer. He didn't make that obvious however as he found Fiona's fear to be quite entertaining, arousing even. He hasn't played that game in a long time. And he missed it. _Really missed it._

"Whad de fucks happenin?" the innkeeper's voice was heard from behind the counter. He had returned from whatever was that occupied him.

Fiona didn't say anything. Her entire body was shaking now; she put her hands together in gesture that seemed a lot like a prayer. Perhaps that's what it was, the Witcher though. He hasn't exactly taken the time to study all the different religions, customs, and rites of the Nordlings – they were just so many of them, as opposed to the cult of the Great Sun that was at least prevalent in every one of the Provinces.

"Witcher!" barked the innkeep "Ya zaid you goin da vix 'er. She's vixed yet?!"

Fiona glanced at the innkeeper's direction once without turning her head, still saying nothing, fear clear in her pretty brown eyes.

"Yes. Fiona…" as he spoke loud enough to be heard by the innkeep Urick moved his right hand. He took hold of his sword's straps, and then put his hand back at the table. "Are you…" he put his elbow on the table so that his right forearm stood, he bring it closer, and began to threateningly toy with the sword's straps "vixed…" the woman seemed to have taken the hint as she didn't took her eyes from the Witcher's hand "yet?" Urick finished and flashed the young woman an ominous smile that matched his tone of voice. While intimidating the young woman was meant to dissuade her from cry out for help, a part of him actually looked forward to the prospect of a massacre. He wanted to kill the three ugly fuckers on the other side of the inn since the moment they looked at him cross-eyed, might as well be tonight instead of tomorrow, to make things even better, if a fight broke up right now, he will be able to feel Fiona's fine meatsacks as he was planning to use her as a shield.

"I-I, I…" Fiona tried to speak but it was unlikely she would be heard at such low volumes. Her eyes darted twice between the innkeep's direction and the Witcher, the look in them made it obvious that she was too afraid to speak… But to Urick's surprise Fiona actually managed to gather the courage to speak. "I am better." She said, quickly, but audibly and clearly enough to be heard by the innkeep. The Witcher's face contorted, slightly revealing his clenched teeth from the left side.

"Den stop dally wid de mutant an' ged de fuck 'ere to clean de floor godsdammid!"

"A- Aye, c-coming" before the young woman managed to get up from her seat and leave, the Witcher immediately grabbed her right wrist with his spare hand. Fiona gasped in horror, but not loudly enough.

The Witcher tightened his grip on the young woman hand, she pursed her lips in response and grimaced in pain, he leaned closer "You're not going anywhere sweetteats" he whispered ominously while looking directly into the young woman's eyes "You'll stay here till I say you can go. I am not in the mood for blood but," the Witcher gave an even more sinister edge to his next three words "that can change… quite quickly in fact. Do you really want the lives of," Urick did not break character as he uttered his next word; despite cringing on the inside "innocents, in your consciousness?" he paused for a second to enjoy the shock and terror in Fiona's eyes to the fullest. _The way she trembled while looking at him brought back some really sweet memories._

"Fiona whad de fuck ya doin? Ged yer arse in 'ere I zaid!"

"I…" Fiona trailed again, her eyes not leaving the Witcher's.

Urick glanced at his sword. With a swift move of his right hand that almost seemed careless, the Witcher used the straps to pull his sword closer and dexterously grabbed the hilt, to his surprise almost, every one of his movements was synched and executed perfectly. "So Fiona…?" he asked and smiled suggestively again. As the young woman's eyes turn to the sword, the Witcher promptly drew the blade from the scabbard, suspending it a little lower than rain-guard length. "What'll it be?"

"I, I am not ffeeling, too well boss." Fiona said after a while, she made a good job masking any stress in her voice this time.

"Whad?! Ya jusd fucking zaid ya bedder? Ged in 'ere an do yer bloody job ya damn ho!"

Fiona did not answer.

Urick decided to answer for her "Master I don't think she's good enough yet. I'll let you know when she's ready."

"De damn vloor getz more stick vor every zecond yer fat arse sits dere, 'urry up and ged well ya-" the innkeep smacked his fist at the table all of a sudden "DE FUCKS YA ZAID YA SHITEEATING TWAT?!" he screamed at the unpleasant patrons at the top of his lungs, then, with surprising for his girth speed, he moved away from the counter and went to their table, cursing and swearing non-stop. He grabbed at the back of No-nose's head and smacked his face on the table. His friends (rather slowly) came to his aid, a brawl soon followed… but Urick didn't exactly felt that he needed to intervene as the innkeep was soundly trashing them despite their numerical advantage, the combatants were also all unarmed -not that he would have intervened should they have any weapons of course, it wasn't his fight- the fact that their blows mainly consisted of punching, kicking, biting, headlocking (specifically by the innkeep who used his size to his full advantage over his opponents), pulling of hair, ears, and… anything else that could be pulled, and other nonlethal strikes made the whole affair seem too childish for him to take seriously.

Considering the issue taken care of for the time being _—in that bizarre, brutish, and completely uncivilized way that the Nondlings considered quite normal obviously—_ the Witcher's attention returned to the young woman. "Please… let me go" she said in a pleading whisper, her head held low. Urick unloosed his fingers from his sword's straps. "I-I'll say nothing, I swear" she kept imploring, avoiding contact with the Witcher's eyes "Please I-… I didn't mean to insult you–none here was, we're simple folk master, didn't mean any harm honest, life is hard here, I…" the more Fiona kept talking the more difficult it became for her to hold back her tears. The Witcher relaxed his grip on her wrist. "…I'm no one- Not important to anyone here, just a wench try to go by, please-" the young woman stopped talking as Urick put his right hand on her chin and forced her to look at him.

"Please… don't-" He silenced her with a deep kiss.

Urick took the time to enjoy it… _He hadn't taste a woman's lips in a long time…_

 _Since he and Velmelianna broke up in fact…_

 _And Fiona's lips tasted so much better than he expected._

It was obviously due to fear of the consequences, but the young woman did not attempt to break away from the kiss; did not clench her teeth, did not grimace, did not resist at all. She just accepted it.

The Witcher finally broke away. As their mouths parted, Fiona took deep breaths, her face as red as a tomato. Instead of sitting back, he leaned a little forward "Do everything I say," he whispered softly in her ear "and I'll let you live – You, and everyone else here." He said, and kissed her one last time in the neck – to seal this deal. As he did that, he also took the chance to look at the far away table where the unpleasant patrons were. The innkeep was still giving them a really sound beating, his face has turned red, eyes were wide and bulging, froth was coming out of his mouth, and he was sweating like the hog he most closely resembled. By chance, Horseshoe looked the Witcher's way while grabbing at the innkeep's huge arm, an angry grimace on his ugly face, which quite possibly now turned even uglier after the sudden punch to the face by the innkeep. Urick smiled seeing that.

The Witcher finally sat back on the bench. And opposite of him a rather amusing sight: that of a young woman with her head held low in defeat, eyes shut, and tears running down her cheeks. He could not help but marvel at just how stupid and cowardly she proved to be when under pressure. Urick had absolutely no intention of harming her… so long as she kept quiet. She does something stupid however, and he'll slaughter her, like the rest of the animals here… He had to admit though, he much preferred that attitude over that of most women he had the displeasure of sharing time outside a bed in his foolishness, at least she acted as sensible women ought to given the kind of situation she believed she was in.

Urick put his arms across his chest "Drink. Now." he ordered.

The waitress did as she was told, her hands shaking as she rose the bowl from the table's surface, she avoided the Witcher's eyes.

Urick almost grimaced as he heard the annoying slurping sounds again. At least now he knew for certain that she wasn't doing it on purpose so he refrained from ordering her to stop making that noise. "I said drink, not gulp." said the Witcher emphatically after a few seconds of realizing that Fiona was nervously draining the bowl's contents without pause, spilling some of them on the table.

The young woman stopped immediately and put the bowl back at the table "S-s-sorry." She said sniffing, trying in vain to suppress her tears, she kept avoiding his eyes.

"Stupid wench" Urick sighed. He stood up, heading towards the kitchen again.

Before continue walking thought, he stopped, right besides Fiona "Don't you dare move from here." He warned her poignantly.

She answered with a nod, and a sniff; she did not turn to look at him, her head held low, her eyes tightly shut, tears running down, not stopping. She was shaking.

The Witcher sighed, more heavily than before _"I fucking hate Northern women."_ He reached for his satchel as he thought that.

The young woman gasped and leaned back slightly at what the Witcher put in front of her a mere inches away from her face: a handkerchief.

"Here" said Urick. "Wipe your tears with it, it's clean."

She complied, extending a shaking hand.

Urick went back in the kitchen, completely ignoring the ruckus the rest of the inn's residents are making.

* * *

 **The Wyvern Witcher – Codex**

 **Bonus story: The Witcher and the Sorceress**

 **-The first steps-**

* * *

After dismounting from her horse, she sighed, heavily.

She was cold and exhausted, most of her body was in pain, and her eyelids felt heavy. She felt that she could collapse simply by casting not a spell but a sign.

She just wanted to take a hot bath and go straight to bed.

"Are you okay?" asked the Witcher while tying his mare to the stall.

"I'm fine." Said the Sorceress, not bothering herself with her accent "Just… tired is all." Velmelianna significantly downplayed her enervation, out of personal pride chiefly, but also because she would of just plain hated it if the Witcher ended up thinking of her as just another sorceress that was only good at scheming, cursing, and showing her tits off and had absolutely no place fighting monsters with weapons up-close and personal like a warrior would. She may not have been like most sorceress, but if life have taught her anything, it was that she will always be judged based on this unsavory preconception, no matter how much she tried not to live up to it.

"Tie Cyprin up for me. And please, tell the hostess to prepare some water – hot – I really need a bath. Also, inform her husband that we will be staying tomorrow as well." The Sorceress instructed the Witcher without looking at him. She moved away from her horse, leaving it for him to take care, and began walking, heading towards the front door of the Golden Apple.

As she took her forth step, the Sorceress suddenly felt dizzy.

She stopped, and leaned against the inn's wall to catch her balance. "Damn it." She silently cursed.

"It's okay." Velmelianna reassured the Witcher after hearing steps behind her. She didn't need to see him coming her way. She knew his pacing well: quick-moving, yet heavy – sudden – just like his temper, just like his blows, just like his feelings.

The Witcher stopped just behind her.

"I'm fine." Repeated the Sorceress, with even less strength than before, her words almost whispers "Just give me a mi-" before she managed to finish her sentence, Velmelianna was abruptly grabbed by the legs and lifted up "Wow!" she cried, more loudly than she expected that she currently could.

The Witcher began walking, currying her in his arms -one supported her leg, the other her back- much like a- "Put me down!" The Sorceress ordered loudly.

"No." the Witcher simply answered, in a frustratingly calm tone.

"Witcher I order you to-…!" the Sorceress could swear that someone just 'stole' her voice as the Witcher stopped and turn to look at her.

He regarded her with the most disarming gaze she probably ever saw in a man.

There was a… tenderness, in his eyes.

He had never looked at her like that before…

. . .

Some time passed. The Sorceress wasn't sure how much exactly, before she managed to find her voice again.

"…Witcher." She said finally, quietly, very quietly, avoiding his eyes. Did he even hear her?

He did. "Yes, mistress?"

"Curry me upstairs."

. . .

 _"And they say that chivalry is dead."_ Thought the Sorceress while sitting by the vanity table, waiting for the Witcher to bring the water up, reckoning that sitting on the bed will be enough for her to just fall back and sleep right there and then. And she didn't want to wake up tomorrow with the lingering stench of sweat, blood, and ash.

"…" Even so, her eyelids threaten to drop with every passing second.

"…"

"…"

"…Huh!" She quick shook her head as she almost fell asleep. The Witcher was taking too long.

"…"

"…"

"…" her consciousness was slowly drifting away…

She could not resist her fatigue anymore.

She just closed her eyes.

. . .

A pleasant sensation. Familiar. Rejuvenating.

Thou her eyes were still closed, it brought her back to her senses.

She heard a sound, and made an attempt to open up her eyes.

She managed, barely.

It was only for a fraction of a second before her eyelids dropped again but it was enough to make up his visage. She weakly whispered his name "Urick."

"Sleep." She heard him say, and suddenly she began feeling warm…

 _She was feeling good…_

 _…Really, really good._

 _ **Water.**_

. . .

Slowly, her eyes began to open.

"… Wooden beams?" murmured the Sorceress.

After a few seconds passed she finally realized that she was actually staring at the ceiling.

She stayed like she was for a few more seconds, in complete stillness, relaxing, before she finally found the will to move her body again.

She heard a sound.

Her head felt heavy, so heavy in fact that after moving it forward a little, she found herself falling…

And then, she realized. That she was actually submerged in liquid: a greenish-yellowy liquid, that was now reaching up to her nose… somehow, it smelled and tasted both pleasant and familiar.

Approximately seven paces from her, she saw what seemed to be a wooden fence. A short one. Strangely, it appears to be surrounding her… Was she in a bathtub?

Slowly, the Sorceress began moving again. She rose, till half of her neck came out of the liquid – she felt her feet touching something as she did. She moved backwards; her head touched a surface behind her. Her conjecture seems to stand.

Many questions were rushing through her mind: Just how she found herself here? What exactly happened? And how much time had passed since she lost consciousness? Unfortunately, the sharp pain in her head was inhibiting her ability to concentrate.

She decided to remedy that.

She raised her right hand. Small green-yellow streams were falling through her fingers like… _"Water!"_ the thought jolted her memory somewhat. Before she tried to make any sense out of it though, she casted Axii on herself.

Feeling the effect of the magical sign clearing her head Velmelianna sighed in relief.

She lowered her head slightly and put her raised hand on it, covering her eye. She began caressing her head then, slowly running her hand all over it while casting a minor healing spell.

Once finished, the Sorceress's head wasn't bothering her anymore.

She sighed again, in even greater relief than before. _"Mere tricks, signs"_ she thought smiling _"but they do the job."_

Clear-headed at last, the Sorceress could finally confirm with utmost certainty that her original estimation was correct: She was indeed in a bathtub. But not the one she remembered went along with the room they rent. This one was larger and wider—enough to seemingly fit at least three people—and it appeared to be much sturdier. She also identified the yellow-green liquid (and berated herself internally for not immediately recognize it) as mere water infused with her very own healing essential oil.

 _"But how it- Urick!"_ Velmelianna looked around.

Turning left, she spotted him. He was meditating on the floor in his usual pose, still wearing his dirtied and stained with blood armor.

The Sorceress moved to her partner's direction. Reaching to the tub's edge she almost called his name aloud, but she stopped mid-word once it came to her attention that he wasn't actually meditating -his head was leaning downwards, and he wasn't touching his knees- He was sleeping.

Velmelianna smiled looking at the Witcher.

 _"He probably decided to meditate while waiting for me to wake up. But he fell asleep…"_ The Sorceress's smile was slowly fade, as she began to register just how strenuous it must have been for him – carrying her up here, bring the bathing water, move this large, heavy bathtub from wherever it was, undress her, then carry her again – all this strain couldn't have been good for his injuries…

 _Yet Velmelianna didn't feel guilt thinking about it. Instead, she felt flattered… and touched…_

"Sorry, Urick." She looked down.

"Huh?" As her eyes went lower, they spotted the heart-shaped glass vial that served as container for her healing essence, half-empty.

"… He remembered." The realization brought another smile on the Sorceress's face. A much, much warmer smile. She knew well how observant Urick was, but it still came off as a surprise to her that he will actually care enough to remember which vial she used that one evening. Men are selfish by nature after all, and rarely pay any mind to things that don't immediately benefit or satisfy them…

The Sorceress raised her eyes. _"Perhaps I should finally stop judging him by the same standards. He is a man. But human no more."_ She thought, and, with a move abrupt enough as to splash some water outside the tub she fell back. Once she touched the other side, she turned sunwise. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and went down.

She stayed like this for a time, relaxing.

She was already feeling the healing properties of the enchanted water rejuvenate her body – It was faster and more effective to submerge yourself instead of simply bathe in it. Velmelianna could keep her breath for a long time, so she decided to speed up the process somewhat since Urick could also use it… _"He had sustained more serious wounds than me."_ The Sorceress reminded herself as she opened her eyes.

She kept her eyes open while in the water as not to allow herself to relax a little too much and either fall asleep or forget about the passage of time.

…Her mind did wonder however.

Velmelianna was always aware that there was just something off with her and her brother, as humans should never feel so relaxed in water as to fall asleep while completely submerged in it – let alone hold their breath for as long as an hour or longer without the aid of a spell. She and Yarwel may have both been born with the 'gift' of magic, but their affinity for the Element of Water was unusual (bordering on impossible, according to many of the experienced tutors at Gweision Haul.) They do have had a head start of course, learning with the druids of the nearby forest. Their 'gifts' though… developed in vastly different directions by the time they were both leaving the walls of the Imperial Magic Academy behind.

Even before she properly came to the ways of the druids, Wilma had always favored amity over hostility. _To help and heal rather than hurt. That's what she wanted to do._ So she developed her natural magic talent in conjunction with the Element of Earth early on in her studies to create new and even more powerful forms of existing healing spells. Not as easy a task as Wilma initially believed when she witnessed Gweision Haul with starry eyes for the first time. Being a little thing of ten years back then she thought that such an enormous palace -for that's what she believed it to be then- that was dedicated in discovering the highest of mysteries would surely housing the knowledge of the gods themselves… To her shock and disappointment (and now loathing) she soon learned just how very few sorcerers actually show any interest in magical healing, and that most of them were aiming for the more influential positions within the Empire – especially those already-experienced magicians that Pre-Nilfgaard conquest served as advisors to nobles and rulers and have been stripped out of their privileged positions. As such, most apprentice mages dedicated their educational years in the study of divination magic in the hopes of becoming Diviners: the one position that provided the easiest access in the Imperial court and even the prospect of becoming advisor to the emperor himself, while the mages that show more aptitude for the more destructive aspect of the Power, and the skill necessary to tame it, join the military instead. This career was naturally riskier, but, since the Mage Hunters or the Secret Police weren't operating outside Empire-controlled territory, it was the sole position that provided any sorcerer with the most autonomy (and even a chance at running away), and it was quite possibly the only career path in which he or she could actually earn genuine respect within Nilfgaardian society – one mage in the past even managed to achieve the rank of Colonel. Those two were the most promising career choices for any mage who wanted a taste of power, however short and fleeting might be, and of those few mages that still harbored some ambition, they hoped them a chance to realize it. They were always proven wrong by the end of course. And it was often easy enough to witness how, since their corpses were always displayed in such a way as to leave a lasting impression to anyone unfortunate enough to passed them by, provided they could still be identified as human or elven…

 _"To be a mage in Nilfgaard is difficult, to be an ambitious mage in Nilfgaard is suicide."_ Velmelianna grimly reminded herself. Fortunately for her, she was never ambitious (at least politically) so instead of pointlessly risk her own life in the pursuit of what was effectively an illusion, she chose to simply run an apothecary in a small town, providing local folk with their day-to-day necessities. She had yet to thank her father for his lessons in humility… They sure have served her well here.

Velmelianna surfaced from the enchanted water.

She took a deep breath – that strangely came off as a sigh, and turn to the right. The Witcher was in the exact same place she saw him last, almost in the exact same position. "My knight" giggled the Sorceress and proceeded getting out from the tub.

Once out, she stretched herself. Her muscles were still a bit sore, but otherwise, she felt refreshed. Enough so to cast the few magic spells she wanted to return Urick the favor.

The Sorceress stood in front of the tub and spread her arms. Not needing an incantation for such a simple spell, she began channeling the Power using the body of water already in front of her. Her spell manifested. And just as well, Purify Liquid cleansed the bathwater of any lingering remnants of dirt or blood that her body might have left in it, on the flipside though, it also 'cleansed' the benign effects of the healing oil, fortunately there was still enough left in the vial for a second bath…

One that Velmelianna just might enjoy more if the Witcher is not nearly exhausted enough… _Of course, she could always help if it comes to that._

After checking the water one more time and made sure it was clean, the Sorceress sat on the edge of tub's right side. There, she began waving her hand, the water inside the tub began boiling. Velmelianna always feared fire and limited its practical applications to mostly mundane tasks such as lighting candles, stoves, or, just like now, heating up water. Fire was always considered both the strongest and most challenging of the four main Elements to harness raw energy from, and as such, any mage who could exact at least some control over that wild force early on was considered truly exceptional. Many young and foolish (usually boys) mage adepts attempted early on to prove just how powerful and talented they were by trying to harness it -despite repeated advice to the contrary- in the hopes of one day achieving awe-inspiring feats of magic like those of legendary masters like Melgar the Red or Larissa de Winter. Some manage, some don't… Velmelianna began smiling mischievously as she started recalling some of the unfortunate end-results of those failed. One case in particular widened her smile to a full-on grin – a really nasty grin. She knew she shouldn't find pleasure in other peoples' 'misfortunes,' but she just couldn't help herself feeling exactly that each time she remembered Miriam's screams of agony as the white flames she summoned spiraled out of control and began consuming her body. _That cunt deserved that and worse._ Yet to the surprise of pretty much anyone in the Academy, she actually survived her terrible ordeal, not unscathed of course. She most certainly wished she had died there and then though as, according to those tending to her, no amount of mundane or magical healing would ever restore her looks. _It served her right._

"It's ready." The Sorceress judged after putting her finger in the water to check it's temperature. She then turned to her left, leaned down, and picked up the vial from the floor. She poured its remaining contents into the water.

After waiting for a few minutes for the oil to dissolve she stood up and walked over towards the Witcher with soft steps as not to suddenly wake him up.

She stooped two small paces away from him and hunched down. The Witcher was fast sleep, Velmelianna cringe a little as she saw drool hanging from his half-gaping mouth. She almost felt guilty for that instinctual reaction, considering that it was because of him that she eventually learned just how annoying her snoring could be – Though the comparison to a Forest She-Troll was uncalled for! Even if it was merely a thought that he never externalized… He was a gentleman in the end… Or, at least, he knew how to be one when it counted, like tonight.

 _That was more important._

Velmelianna raised her left hand, she reached out to him.

Her attempt at a gentle rousing was roughly cut short as the Witcher suddenly grabbed her by the wrist. His eyes opened wide, their pupils two malevolent slits, his teeth clenching into a angry expression.

The Sorceress gasped in shock, then grimaced as the strength of his grip caused her pain.

From behind his belt, the Witcher took out his knife.

Moving instinctively, the Sorceress immediately raised her left hand. Before she had the chance to cast however, the knife fell from the Witcher's hand as if it slipped. "Mistress?" he said with obvious confusion in his voice, his features softened. He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly then, the next time they opened, his eyes looked normal.

The Sorceress snatched her hand away. "Way to be an ass after being a gentleman Witcher!" she yelled in a combination of fury, fear, and heartbreak. It was not the first time Urick had violent outbursts like this, but she hoped that their occurrence will diminish with time. They have, according to him at least. But each time she survived one just like now the more tempted she was to go forth with her original plan and finally fetter him with magic so she could be sure he won't one day 'accidentally' kill her.

"Sorry, I…" the Witcher's voice trailed off as his eyes began to wander. With a jerky move of his head -as if to snap himself back into attention- Urick focused on her eyes "A- Are you okay?"

 _"I was before…"_ thought the Sorceress as she kept caressing her wrist, eyeing the Witcher narrowly.

"Sorry."

"Save it." Despite using only two words, the harshness in her voice was more than enough to make clear just how furious she was as the Witcher looked away.

The Sorceress stood up. "Get in the tub and clean yourself. You reek." She ordered, then walked forward past him, an angry scowl on her face.

As she reached out for one of the towels resting on the lower point of the bed, the Witcher let out a pained groan that draw her attention.

She turned to see him clenching his right side. She recalled then that this was where Einion's war golem had strike him. "The potions' effects must have completely worn off." She though looking at him.

It took some effort but the Witcher eventually stood, hunching, and still clenching at his ribs, he limped heavily as he headed towards the tub.

Velmelianna's features began softening at the sight. _"He took that blow for me… If he was human, he would've been dead…"_

The Sorceress raised her hand towards her witcher's direction, she began waving her fingers.

"Huh?" Urick uttered in surprise as he took his last pained step. He stopped clenching his right side and stood up properly, he turned around. "Thank you." he smiled at her.

"Numb Pain in only temporary. So, get in the tub. I've prepared the water for you. It'll do you good and…" Velmelianna trailed as the left side of the Witcher's mouth turn wider. His eyes began moving then, shamelesly checking her out. Moving instinctively, the Sorceress slowly used her hands to cover her exsposed 'charms' "Stop staring at me like that." she demanded "Or I'll reverse the spell!"

"As you command." Even as he turned, the suggestive smile remained etched to the Witcher's face. He began undressing himself.


	5. Draconic emblem - Monster

**/**

* * *

 **The Wyvern Witcher**

 **Story Arc One: Grim Up North**

 **Chapter 5: Draconic emblem - part 4: Monster**

* * *

 **Malorik, the Bard**

As he felt a sudden pain in his jaw for a second time, he finally awoke.

"Morning, Precious."

He turned at the unpleasant voice's direction… And as he caught sight of those familiar, hellish yellow eyes, he realized to his horror that all those terrible things that happened to him weren't in fact a mere bad dream.

It was all real.

He did meet a witcher—this witcher, who was now in front of him crouching down on one leg, yet still towering over him, smiling so unsettlingly—while performing in a tavern, and accompanied him on a hunt. Varamyr, he remembered the mutant introduced himself back at The Writhing Wench, and recalled how frustratingly calm and distant he seemed in their initial meeting, going through parchments on the table while eating his cheap meal without raising his eyes to look at him at all, and answering questions with as few words as possible – single-wordy sometimes. That of course, until Malorik, in his refusal to let go of a possibly golden opportunity (or so he thought then), mentioned the epic love story of Geralt of Rivia and Yennefer of Vengerberg. That draw the mysterious witcher's attention immediately. And since the Bard had previously mentioned the famed witcher without raising his interest, he came to the assumption that it wasn't his name or deeds that draw his attention, but his love tale. Despite the rudeness he displayed up until that moment, Malorik decided to politely and gracefully inquire whether the mutant knew by chance the Aedirnian sorceress, or, if he was in love with a sorceress himself, since it was a well-known hearsay that witchers and sorceresses are drawn to each other. "I was" the mutant answered, in a tone of voice that the Bard deemed intriguing enough as to push for more details. He eventually revealed his former lover's name, but it was so queer and foreign that it seemed fake, so it did not stick in Malorik's memory. After a little more prodding -carefully disguised as friendly advice- and a large lager, the mysterious witcher began to slowly open up to him. He eventually 'revealed' that he was born in far-away Ofier, but never knew the country or its people since he grew up in Tretogor, his mother was a disgraced princess forced into exile due to her younger sister usurping the throne, and, since she didn't have any kind of courtly or royal support in the Northern Realms, she was forced to work as a prostitute to support herself and him, eventually dying from syphilis, and then after a few years of living as a street urchin an elder witcher found him and brought him to his keep where he undergo his mutations and training. Fascinated by the mysterious witcher's tale, already thinking of possible rhymes for a ballad, Malorik, in his enthusiasm _(or in hindsight, foolishness)_ , decided to ask about him about his conquests – both of battle and of romance. "Of romance, I only have one tale to share" he remembered the mutant say while looking away, the Bard had to actually suppressed a laugh back then, as his kind's lecherousness was quite notorious "As for battles…" he made his proposition then–or more accurately speaking now, he laid out his trap for him. What a fool he had been. "I can't think of anything of note right about now." Turning to him, he said "Tell you what poet, come with me and judge for yourself the worth of my abilities." Malorik remembers how he felt his stomach tightening when he heard that, and shall he know what would happen then, he would of have listened to his gut, but the scheming mutant kept reassuring him that he would have been fine if he did as he was told. In the end he successfully convinced him by promising him -in a half-serious, and somewhat daring tone- that if he lived through a hunt, he will share with him his whole love story with the sorceress, and one of the many adventures he and her had embarked on together. After Malorik finally agreed, the witcher turned one of the open parchments to his direction. Living dead, he said his target was, so he led him to believe, for when the time was right for him, the treacherous mutant assaulted him for no reason, then took him captive, tying his hands behind the back and legs tightly so he could not escape. After an uncertain amount of time passed and Malorik regained consciousness, the mutant shown his true face to him – a face that proved even uglier than his actual one, for the freak revealed himself to be a Nilfgaardian, and, true to his nature as an entitled-to-everything, vile and unrepentant scam that all of them were without exception, he proceeded tormenting his captive for no other reason than sheer amusement…

"What have you done to me you son-of-a-bitch?!" the minstrel yelled as he suddenly remembered the utterly hideous visage he glimpsed upon the surface of the mutant's shining blade… only to realize in slight embarrassment for a second time that his captor had him muzzled still.

The mutant let out a sigh as he shook his head in amusement. Then, he extended his right hand and grabbed at the piece of cloth that served to silence the Bard, he pushed it down.

Malorik lost no chance, with a sudden move he attempted to bite at the mutant's hand. Too late unfortunately, for the witcher seemed to have expected it and took his hand away just in time, causing Malorik to lose balance due the momentum -and instinctual attempt for an immediate second bite- and hit the ground, the Bard let out a pained groan.

"Soldiers, whores, barmaids, innkeepers, peasants, poets – no matter the occupation, all of you barbarians are spectacularly stupid."

"FUCK YOU!" Malorik screamed as he raised his head to look at the black one. Due to a lack of use, his normally velveteen voice came out really coarse, his throat felt dry.

"Well, that's not a way I would expect a 'master of the seven liberal arts' to talk like."

"Mark my words, you won't get away with this, you son-of-a-bitch! I have friends in-" Malorik paused as he coughed "Powerful friends!" he continued "Amongst the royal courts of Temeria, Kovir, Lyria and Rivia! They know the places I perform; they'll search for me! And then you can be sure you black bastard, you'll beg to-" the Bard's stopped speaking as he began coughing uncontrollably.

The freak took advantage of this chance to speak. "I suggest you keep your voice down Malorik," he said, his tone annoyingly calm and casual "else the scurvers will hear you. And once they caught whiff of your stench, they'll quickly come here, and you better believe me on that one: Most, if not all them, will ignore me, and go straight to you."

As the minstrel's cough was subsiding, he began recalling the beasts the mutant was talking about. Undead they were, he remembers, but far more revolting than what he expected when first informed of that – Malorik couldn't even begin to imagine what kind of vile sins these men must have committed in life to end up in such sorry state after death: For they looked like piles of rotten meat shaped up like humanoids, they were hunched, with hideous faces with small eyes and impossibly wide mouths filled with sharp teeth, and spiky bone-like protrusions sticking out of most of their bodies – So hideous and misshapen they were, they barely resembled the people they once were…

"What have you done to me!" the Bard asked loudly.

The Witcher grimaced, but seemed more amused than annoyed "Stop yelling," the mutant raised his left hand and pointed a little below the Bard's chin "or I'll put that back."

"Answer me!" Malorik demanded. _That reflection he saw in the blade's surface wasn't his face! It wasn't! His skin and hair were fair and absolutely beautiful! That sickly pale with patches of black all over wasn't his, and his hair wasn't grey like some old man's!_ "What have you done to my face you damn freak!" the Bard asked for the second time.

At once, the smile faded from the mutant's face and was replaced with a frown, his eyes began narrowing "Don't call a freak again." said the Witcher in a very low, even tone of voice, and then stood up – It was only now that the minstrel noticed that his captor was holding to a sealed bottle of spirit on his left hand all this time.

Malorik was so delighted that he was able to get under the bastard's skin that he briefly smiled, before he started coughing up again.

"You know, I thought that perhaps you deserved one last drink before the end." the Witcher said in such an even tone of voice he truly sounded devoid of any and all emotion.

Malorik couldn't look up at the mutant to give him an answer. He kept coughing up, badly. His throat felt dry and sore, as if something was scratching the inside of his neck trying to claw its way upwards.

"But now you just lost that chance." After hearing that, the bard heard a sound he immediately recognized as the pulling of a cork.

Feeling the 'something' in his throat wrestle relentlessly to get outside -chocking him- the bard finally gave in, he retched first, then he vomited…

"Wha- … Wha- Wha- Ahhhh… H-Ah…" Whatever words Malorik was meant to say were escaping his mind faster than it can form them. He kept staring with wide eyes at what he disgorged, his mouth was twitching repeatedly, forming different grimaces, he involuntarily bit his lips a few times.

That thick, blackish… purplish, malodorous thing wasn't bile, and it wasn't blood.

"Looks like your time is running out poet." A sinister whisper echoed in the Bard's ears.

Malorik raised his head. The Witcher was staring down at him, smiling, his animalistic eyes shone with evil. "Wha-… What have you…?" Malorik could not hold into his pride any longer, he began to sob. Why is this happening to me?

The Witcher turned his head to the left and let out a heavy sigh before saying "Alright…" He sounded almost regretful as he said that. In his next words however, there wasn't even a hint of compassion "You won't like it though." He said, and turn back to Malorik's direction.

Dread filled the minstrel, he braced himself for what he knew would be horrible.

"Hmh…" the Witcher took a snifter as he appears to be pondering of how to tell the Bard the bad news – as if all of this was nothing more than a mere jape to him… And perhaps it was.

After a few more seconds of 'thinking it off', the Witcher finally spoke "Well, there is no easy way to spell this out – you've got syphilis."

"…"

"I'm afraid is true. A mutated form of syphilis that you can contact only from a witcher. And unlike the regular kind, it progresses rapidly."

"… Ha-… Haha… HA-…"

"Well you can't exactly blame me; I haven't been with a woman for months. Couldn't help myself you understand. You looked so much like a woman that I thought: "Fuck it. His ass is as good as any. I'll pull down his pants, just enough so that I won't be looking at his prick, then pretend that he is a Nilfgaardian courtesan – nothing quite like a taste of home. By the way, your crackhole was quite loose. My cock fitted right away, and I'm not small. You've been fucked in the ass before, haven't you? Not that I'm surprised, with that face of yours, you could easily pass for a woman if you just-" –– "You…" the Witcher stopped talking at his bound captive's first coherent word, his demonic eyes—drifting up until now—promptly turned to him.

"Monster…" Malorik didn't recognize his own voice as he said that, the words that kept coming out of his mouth were uttered without any thought "You… are all… monsters… all of you… You should've all burn…"

The Witcher kept silent for a while, staring at the minstrel with eyes that he could only describe as 'sad.'

But that monster wasn't feeling any sadness, Malorik knew that now. 'He' wasn't feeling anything at all. 'He' was not a person. 'He' was a mutant, completely deprived of any emotion. The only thing it could feel is pleasure. Pleasure it took only at the suffering of others… _Folk should've wiped out all of those freaks from the face of this earth back then. Beasts could be dealt with -they weren't truly evil, they killed only so they could eat- but these abominations, despite looking like and have the intelligence of men, they live only to spread death for no other reason that because it elated them._

"Monster." smiled it as it referred to it's being in a bemused tone. Sighing as if it was a person, it raised the bottle of spirit it held in Malorik's direction – as if it was making a toast to his health. Then, in one gulp, he emptied the entire bottle.

As it was done, the monster let out another sigh "Haven't been called that for some time." it said looking at the bottle in it's hand, it turned it slightly to the left, and then to the right, in a seemingly pointless gesture.

It raised it's eyes suddenly "And you know what, Malorik?" it said in a noticeably lower and more sinister voice "You are absolutely right. I am exactly that: A monster." It said and turned it's back to the minstrel, with slow steps, it began walking. Reaching to a tree on the other side of the camp, the monster stopped. Falling on one knee, it went through the contents of a discarded pair of saddlebags that was resting by the right side of the tree…

It was only a little after that Malorik noticed that these saddlebags that were in fact Pricilla's. _How could he forget her?_ The Bard turned his head around in search of his mare.

His white beauty wasn't anywhere to be found. The Bard started coughing up again.

He coughed up for a good while. The monster said something more during that time, but minstrel did not make up what was as the sharp sounds of his cough drowned the mutant's voice. Once again, Malorik only stopped after disgorging the disgusting black/purple substance.

"Seems you don't have much time left." Malorik heard, he raised his eyes to see the human-shaped beast sitting down with it's back against the tree, staring at him, another bottle in it's left hand… His bottle of Toussaint Red!

Using a wooden spoon, the monster removed the cork sealing the bottle "You may not survive the hunt as ordered," it began "but you did survive our encounter with those scurvers back there, so… since I'm feeling merciful-" –– "MERCIFUL!" Malorik loudly interrupted the freak "Merciful!" he repeated, then he began to cough again.

"I think you've got one more reason as to keep your voice down, poet."

"You," the bard coughed "don't know mercy," he coughed up again, twice "you godsdamned freak! You lot are nothing, but mad dogs." He coughed again "every last, one of you." Malorik let out a loud gasp as he finished talking, he was almost surprised that he managed to say everything he wanted without retching up any more of that sickening goo again.

"By lot" the monster began, it's tone infuriatingly casual "You mean witchers? Mutants in general? Or Nilfgaardians – because in the case of the latter, you would be mistaken to assume I'm one."

Malorik could not take any more of this charade. "And I am from the Skellige Isles – Go plough yourself Nilfgaardian! Where's my Pricilla?! Where-" the Bard began coughing again.

"Skellige? Hmph, strange. I could swear, you told me you were from southern Kovir yourself back at that tavern. 'The Writhing Wench', seriously you nordlings couldn't take a lesson in taste or sophistication from the Aen Seidhe? All you cared about was burn their forests, destroy their edifices, and rape their women?"

Malorik tried his best to suppress his cough. He wanted to give a proper answer to that.

He eventually managed, and turned his angry eyes on the beast's direction.

"Must be making your blood boil." Even from this relative distance, the Bard could see the smug look on the black bastard's face, it's eyes shined with glee. "That humans, descending from elves, inflicted on you what you inflicted on their own kind." Said the black one in a noticeably lower voice – as if to make a point about something.

The mutant readjusted itself -to be more comfortable by the looks of it- and took a snifter from the Toussaint Red.

Rage was boiling inside the minstrel as he witnessed his most favorite (and expensive) wine be savored by his tormentor – it somehow felt like a cruel jest from the gods. _"May you choke on it,"_ He internally cursed at the black one _"you devil."_ As if on cue, the Bard began coughing up again.

"Fascinating really," heard Malorik "how quickly Vileblood progresses." Those words draw the Bard's attention, he tried his best to suppress his cough "It has been almost nine hours," continued the black one "your skin already lost its pigmentation, your hair turned grey, and now your blood is becoming toxic."

Malorik vomited. A great deal.

After he was done, he gasped for air, unsure if it was due to whatever was actually happening to him or the fear of it. This whole ordeal was clearly nothing more than mere amusement for the mutant – it didn't even try to pretend it was otherwise. But Malorik knew for sure now that what this degenerate beast did to him, not only was meant to strip him of his good looks, but also of his life…

 _"I don't want to die."_ The Bard raised his eyes.

Before he managed to find any words however, the black one spoke first "Come now, you didn't honestly believe me when I said that I raped you while unconscious, did you?" it said in tone that couldn't be any less serious.

While a glimmer of hope swelled in his heart at this revelation, Malorik knew better than to believe a word coming out of the witcher's lying mouth… It won't be the first time that a man plagued by a lack of sexual activity tried to satiate his lust by using him like a woman when one was not immediately available… or if he deemed him prettier than most of the available women.

"What? You actually believed me?" the mutant laughed "I just gave you a potion."

Hearing that, Malorik's heart began to sink. He remembered hearing about these 'potions' witchers took from a travelling merchant about a year ago. He did not recall the chatty midget's name, but he remembered well that he told him that these brews were in fact intoxicants, poisons that greatly enhance the powers of the vile mutants, but any ordinary folk that drinks them would either die or worse…

Malorik was not dead yet.

The monster raised it's right hand, a small, empty vial between it's fingers. "Vileblood, Jest had named it." it began "That's what I gave you, when you were unconscious." it turned it's head then and brought the vial closer to it's face before continuing "It's not a, true witcher's potion – it has no beneficial effects on our bodies. It's more of a, poison, really – toxic even to us," it let out a short, low laugh "especially us. We never utilized it. For you see, once in a witcher's system, that vile thing rapidly increases the toxicity in our bodies till it cannot take it anymore, eventually killing us. Furthermore, it slowly suppresses the beneficial effects of any potions previously ingested. We need to take a particular potion that completely cleanses our bodies from all toxins since our bodies cannot fight it off naturally." Once apparently done talking, the mutant put the vial on the ground.

"…" the minstrel could not properly put into words the kind of fear he felt as the witcher's words began to slowly sink in. If this vile concoction is toxic for his wretched kind, what can it do to ordinary men…? He dreaded to even ask now. _"Why is this happening to me?"_

Man and mutant both fell quiet.

In the ensuing silence, the tweeting of birds heard in the distance grew more and more audible. Soon, the sun will rise, Malorik guessed, not sure why he even bothered with it in a time like this… _This might be, the last time he'll see the sun… if he'll be allowed to see it…_ realizing this the minstrel began weeping.

"I met her under, strange circumstances." The Witcher said suddenly, the Bard promptly turned to him. He wasn't sure when it moved exactly, but the mutant was now sitting by the left side, facing towards the cliff, eyes looking straight ahead "Not during some banquet, or, some great, dragon hunt, or an orgy – nothing that eventful or extravagant – I did not seek her out at all." It paused then, and took a snifter.

"Almost forty years ago it was." it continued after a few seconds "I was captured by slavers." the Witcher turned his head. "After what you witnessed yesterday you may wonder: How one does capture a witcher?"

Malorik might have indeed actually wondered under different circumstances, but now he only wondered what he can do or say to save himself… _But even so… looking like this? How he would ever perform again?_

"Well…" the monster kept on, completely indifferent to his captive's tears of sorrow "turns out that when said witcher is heavily wounded and exhausted, without a sword, a serrated dagger plunged to his gut, and outnumbered eight to one, ordinary folk can manage to capture him just fine. Still, I managed to kill two of them. One with the said dagger, I wretched it out from my belly, and stabbed him straight in the eye. Not my brightest idea let me tell you, as I soon passed out due to blood loss. I would've been a goner for sure if they didn't have a healer with them to stitch me up." the Witcher took another snifter, then he went on "If you wonder how I ended up in such sorry state beforehand, long story short: bounty hunters." The Witcher took a long gulp before continuing "I swear," the mutant's voice turned noticeably grumpier from that point on "that fish-eyed fuck among them was no human. No human I fought before or after ever used a sword the way he did, or moved the way he did. Three of his fellows I've killed without breaking a sweat. But when I went for him- …" the Witcher abruptly stopped talking. Continuing, it's tone turned more composed, but was not yet bereft of bitterness "Let's just, say… that I received a better lesson in humility that day… than Drowovir or Dagda's lessons were ever capable of instilling… near-death experiences tend to stick…"

After seemingly taking a break from narrating, Malorik took the chance to speak to the mutant "W-witcher." He sniffed "I- I know people." The Bard coughed, to his small relief, it was only once "Rich people… who would pay you handsomely if you-" he coughed again, this time twice "…if you bring me alive." The more he kept on speaking, the more Malorik's throat was turning dry and scratchy, it was becoming painful to actually talk.

After a short break, the minstrel continued "In Maribor… duke Ferdynard, would pay you eight hundred crowns," he coughed once "if you bring me alive before him… It's in Temeria. Three days travel… just…" Malorik stopped for a while, it was becoming difficult to breath "I beg you, please… just, give me that antidote of yours… I swear by all the gods, I'm telling you the truth." He pleaded, hoping for the best.

Malorik knew well that there was little chance he'll be welcomed back to the duke Ferdynard's estate with open arms after 'soiling' his spoiled brat of a daughter, but his chances of survival were still better if he begged them for forgiveness instead of staying in the captivity of this creature. He only needs the Witcher to give him the cure. Then, once back, perhaps he can convince the duke that the 'violation' was just a misunderstanding, that he was never meant to scare his daughter. 'Lady' Liwia must have had went with enough men by now to know the difference between actual rape and fervent copulation… _But, would this 'antidote', even restore his beauty?_

"I was in the auction stand." the Witcher began, in an uncharacteristically softer voice, the position of it's body as well as the emotionless expression on it's face were completely unchanged. _Did it not hear him? No, it couldn't be, it was doing it on purpose. Damned freak!_ "She was there, amidst the crowd." Continued the freak "Apart from the muzzle and the chains in my neck, wrists and ankles, I was bare naked in that stand, and it was cold that day, it rained later on. The slavers had me all prim and proper the day before the auction -they could not present me up there looking like some barbarian from the Isles, you see,- so they had me bathed, cut my hair, shaved my beard, they also shaved off most of the hair from my body: chest, back, around my cock – everywhere they considered too unpleasant to look at."

Taking a short break, the Witcher took another snifter "Have to say" it's tone took a slightly more jovial note as it continued from where it left "After five days in their 'loving care', the slave auction was a delightful change of scenery," the mutant laughed "if it wasn't for that leathery thing they used to gag me, I would of had burst out laughing from all the ridiculous things I was hearing – from the auctioneer's dramatic exaggeration of my skills and attributes, as well as his on-the-spot creative counterarguments to the would-be-buyer's concerns, to the crowd's 'tactful' questioning in regards to my 'functions'." The mutant paused.

"Witcher." Malorik began "Duke Ferdynard" he coughed, twice "has no love for me. He h- had put a bounty on my 'ead…" his voice was growing dryer and thinner the further he spoke, forcing the minstrel to take breaks to keep on "You're in no danger in bring me… To him… He only wishes to see me suffer for… the disrespect of his daughter…" He coughed again, four times initially before stopping, with a long gasp, then he coughed up repeatedly.

Once the coughing subsided the minster let his head touch the ground, his chest was hurting.

"In the end," hearing the Witcher's voice, Malorik tried to move his head up towards the mutant's direction "I was sold for sixteen-hundred and forty florens to the hooded woman with the black cloak…" the mutant sighed before pausing.

The Bard finally managed. The Witcher was where he last saw him.

"She couldn't even wait for them to bring me some clothes. As soon as the last of the bindings were off me, she put her hand on my forearm. What followed was a sudden flash of light, next time I opened my eyes we were in her house. Since I've never been teleported before in my life I was, unprepared, for the experience – I bent down, and threw up…" from that point forward the Witcher's voice turned so soft it was queer hearing him talk ""My mistake," she said, putting a hand on the back of my shoulder, I turned, and, my eyes met hers…" the Witcher let out a sigh that weirdly ended in a smile, he took another snifter of Toussaint Red before continuing "Until that moment I've believed that fate, destiny, and whatnot were nothing more than fairy tales, made by gullible lemmings to make themselves feel better about their miserable lot in life. But the moment I stared at her eyes I knew that destiny was real…" the mutant's next words were delivered in a sharply bitterer tone "And that she was a reeeaal bitch." saying that, and, after a long while of seemingly ignoring his presence, the Witcher suddenly turned to it's tormented captive's direction, his eyes shone, but his stare was cold.

"Witcher…" Malorik tried to talk, his throat felt as if on fire, his chest and belly were aching "Please… the antidote… it's to your benevit." The minstrel let out another long, dry gasp. _"Water."_ He groveled.

"If you think that I've got enticed by her 'enchanting' beauty though," The Witcher began talking again "you'll be greatly mistaken."

Malorik raised his eyes, and saw to his growing despair that the Witcher was once more staring towards the cliff's direction just like before, as if nothing happened… _He was truly devoid of all empathy._

"Her mismatched eyes -the left a vibrant blue/green, the right a duller combination of brown/orange – later I've learned was called amber- were very similar to the ones a certain prick of a mage I had the misfortune to come across after I left Ymlac had. Though his were in reverse – almost killed me to, the rest of her resemblance to him didn't help either: same really white skin, black hair, and similar sharp features. Later I've learned that they were actually twins – I mean what are the odds-" The Witcher's abruptly stopped talking.

As it continued on, it's voice took the same soft tone as before "I, was staring, dumbfounded, only snapping out of my trance when she spoke… She, told me that she should of have warned me beforehand, and revealed that she also threw up the first time she teleported too. I kept on staring, even more baffled than before, gaping…" the mutant let out a soft giggle before continuing "she put her hand on my chin and softly pushed my jaw up. She helped me back at my feet, it was unnecessary… yet she did it anyway. "Wait here, I'll bring you cloths." she said before I manage to say anything. Then, she walked towards the stairs to fetch them. I took the chance to look around the place. Modest, and, quite pleasant to look at – a house, not some, creepy laboratory meant to vivisect me, an owl flying around freely. Huh, it perched itself on a chair and, stared, I stared back, not sure why. She returned from upstairs, with the clothes she promised, they smelled of citrus and cloves. She gave them to me and, turn to the pile of bile I left on the floor. Not saying a word, she raised her left hand and a white glow emanate from her fingers. Then, just like that, the bile began moving on its own. After concentrating itself on a spot, it quickly raised from the floor and bend with such vigor as if alive and dancing, it twirled into a ball, and disappear in a flash of light…"

The Witcher paused to take another snifter of wine. The mutant's face twisted as it came with the bitter realization that it already emptied the bottle.

The Nilfgaardian freak said something in it's native mongrel tongue – the first time the minstrel actually heard it talk in it. Malorik would've guessed it was some curse it spat, but with the black ones' tongue he could not be certain as it was naturally so hard and unpleasant to the ear every word sounded like a swear. In sharp contrast to it's 'northern' accent that sounded more or less like a Kaedweni having a sore throat, the Witcher sounded just like any other of it's vile compatriots when speaking native. _It was an evil tongue, spoken by evil people. A tongue that did not sing._

The Witcher sighed heavily, then fell silent.

The minstrel didn't say anything. He lacked the strength.

. . .

To the left, from below the cliff, the sun began to raise.

Malorik turned to the cliff's direction.

His suffering had grown even more agonizing.

He felt drained, his eyesight grew blurry, and his pain worsened still as it slowly spread through his body – even if he somehow found himself free of his bonds at this very moment, he was certain he won't be able to run.

He'll die…

But he wanted to see the sun… One last time.

 _"Sun._

 _My sunlight._

 _I am sorry…_

 _I wish…_

 _I wish… I was worthy… of your love."_

The sun… was shining so bright.

It was so warm…

Was he in heaven?

He felt… light.

He wasn't feeling his legs anymore.

Or his arms.

His tummy felt…

It felt… itchy?

Why itchy?

Red ribbons…

Hanging.

"Ah...?"

"AH!"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!"

* * *

 **The Wyvern Witcher - Codex**

 **Bonus Story: Hearing voices**

* * *

Jest's voice: Subject one-hundred ninety-two. Birth name: unknown. Given name: Urick. Birth place: Thurn city – Maecht. Age: nine. Hair color: Black. Eye color: Black. Skin tone: Dark. Procedure: Experimental – Project Juggernaut – Third subject. Status-

Dagda's voice: Failure!

Jest's voice: …to be determined.

Dagda's voice: You didn't even right that down Jest.

Jest's voice: Indeed, I haven't. Yet to write him down as a failure two days after-Trial would be both incorrect and counterproductive as his vitals are still steady.

Dagda's voice: So were the others' before him. Still they died after a week or so. What makes you think this weakling here will make it through? The Grasses almost gave him a heart attack three times, and he was constantly shitting himself.

Jest's voice: It maybe so. Still, he is a child of destiny.

Dagda's voice: Oh, come now Jest. Don't tell me you believe that shit about destiny – it's all hogwash.

Jest's voice: Magic is all around us since the Conjunction of the Spheres -

Dagda's voice: Ahhh…

Jest's voice: …Is it that difficult… to believe that destiny doesn't amount to the existence of omnipotent all-powerful beings that shaped everything on a whim, and it is instead merely the result of The Power running wild—even today—involuntarily giving shape, to what people perceive, as real. Spells, signs, hexes, even curses and rituals, all follow the same principle – grasping at what is already there, bending it, and with caution, shape it, till it takes its final form, and then-… Do you see my point now?

Dagda's voice: No. There is no destiny, no more than there are gods. But it's a useful tool in acquiring coin, new members, or a cunt to stick it in. That's what's important.

Jest's voice: I pity you… suchh, lack of percipience, or wonder.

Dagda's voice: And I pity you for having no cock, ha.

Jest's voice: Your sympathy is appreciated but misplaced, master Dagda.

Dagda's voice: Ahhhh…

. . .

Jest: Why are you still here?

Dagda: Nothing better to do, training's over for today.

Jest: There is always something better to do. Why not patrol around the hills or the woods?

Dagda: The woods?! You kidding Jest?!

Dagda: …Fuck you Melchior.

Jest: You keep calling me 'Jest'. I feel like giving you motivation to keep using that otherwise ill-fitting nickname, every now and then… But no, I am not jesting. Our 'king' has been pretty restless as of late. And I think it would be, prudent, to keep an eye out for it.

Dagda: Easy for you to say… You've never been in the Murmuring Wood. Never seen HIM, up close.

Jest: You've been though, you've seen 'HIM' up close, and you lived to talk about it.

Dagda: …He's looking, sometimes you know. Out there…

Jest: I know. I've seen it in the shadows.

Dagda: Those fucking eyes… Hey, Melchior, do you think that the story is true?

Jest: It's the story about the 'cursed elven king' you are referring to?

Dagda: Yes… I mean, of all the Fiends I've encountered after him the biggest one was not even five meters, and all of them had shits for brains compared to him, he also never leaves the Murmuring Wood… and this howl of his…

Jest: You were about to say something in regards to it's howling?

Dagda: It's like… he's howling in pain…

Jest: It's possible this, aberrant, might indeed be a cursed individual but there is simply not enough data to confirm it. One day though, when you decide to finally break this inane tradition of yours, I might go to the woods myself.

Dagda: Hahahahaha- that I'll pay to see.

Jest: …I've been thinking it for years, thank you very much, sir Dagda. And I've already taken some precautions during my anticipation.

Dagda: Well color me intrigued. Guess you still got your balls, huh.

Jest: I don't, actually. I cut off both my testicles. The ritual required it.

Dagda: … You've… done this, to yourself?

Jest: Yes, indeed I have. I was never particularly interested in pursuit carnal pleasures, my manhood was nothing more than liability to me, so I trade it for something… much, much more… unique.

Dagda: … You are… one sick fuck Jest…

Jest: … Coming from a murderer and child rapist, I take this, as a compliment.

Jest: I suggest you don't lecture me again in regards to what is acceptable or not. And don't look at me like that, I have absolutely no intention to betray you. Our arrangement is a mutually beneficial one – especially for me, the funding and subjects you provided had greatly aided my research.

Jest: Would like anything else, sir Dagda?

Dagda: …No.

Footsteps.

Dagda: By the way, how is she?

Jest: To whom you are referring to?

Dagda: Little Millie.

Jest: Quite well, and I-.

Dagda: Any tits on her yet?

Jest: …I made sure that didn't happen. Unlike the girls here, I don't groom Milena to be a slave but my assistant, a large chest might just get in the way of her physical tasks, and I need her to be quick on her feet.

Dagda: Fuck, ha, well she'll hate you in the future. Wenches want it as much as we do you know. Not that you would now, ha, but a man likes tits on a woman.

Jest: The baker's son didn't seem to mind though.

Dagda: When would you bring her here?

Jest: Never. She doesn't wish to see this place again.

Dagda: What?!

Jest: Her resistance to the mind degrading effects of the Fruits had proved stronger than I actually anticipated – It is remarkable. One day, she had an… outburst of sorts.

Dagda: …Meaning?

Jest: She was with the boy I mentioned earlier when it happened, they were going to have intercourse for the first time. The boy ran to my lab, and in a panic, told me she wasn't well. I followed the boy to see what was happening, and found her curled up in the leftmost corner of her room with her nails dug to the flesh between her shoulders and upper arms, shaking, crying, and biting at her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Concerned since she never exhibited this kind of behavior before, I casted a hypnotic spell to calm her down, and to my then shock, it proved completely ineffective, so I was forced to employ more mundane means of mental manipulation – which actually proved effective. After she calmed down, I put her to sleep.

Dagda: So nice of you Melchior, I'm sure you'll make a good mother one day. But what the fuck all this had to do with her not wanting to return?

Jest: She recalled the night you take her from home. I understand that the mutations my predecessor have subjected you to have granted you all with a higher-than-normal libido, but was it really necessary of you to take her mother as she lay dying on the floor in front of her, it just seemed… excessive.

Dagda: Well, a man has needs, and I wasn't expecting her to remember that since she was only a toddler back then.

Jest: Even children as young as two can keep memories and have them recalled years later, especially traumatic events, she was sobbing all the while.

Dagda: Fuck, don't remind me of it. She wasn't stopping, I was honestly tempted to bash her head on the wall.

Jest: I am surprised you didn't do it.

Dagda: She was my price. I invoke the Law of Surprise.

Jest: …Milena is a child of destiny?

Dagda: Half the waifs here are 'children of destiny' Jest. You thought we kidnap them all? Had that been the case, we would have been attacked years earlier.

Dagda: Fuck, why you had to remind me of that night, despite that swollen belly of hers, Little Millie's mama was quite fetching—even more so covered in all that blood—but I couldn't savor her fully with the little whippersnapper screaming and crying on the corner.

Dagda: You know, perhaps I'll stop by your tower in Nazair for a visit this spring. I'll like to get a look at Little Millie now that she's ripe for ploughing. If she looks anything like her mama, she can make up for then.

Jest: No.

Dagda: What?

Jest: No. You cannot come. You're unwelcome in my home.

Dagda: Well… you look at that… Too bad it's not for you to decide Melchior. She and I, are bound by destiny. She, is mine. To do as I please.

Footsteps.


	6. Draconic emblem - Born or made?

**/**

* * *

 **The Wyvern Witcher**

 **Story Arc One: Grim Up North**

 **Chapter 5: Draconic emblem - part 5: Born or made?**

* * *

 **Varamyr**

The Witcher opened his eyes.

He saw the Rat standing over him while holding his dagger with both hands over her head.

The Rat's misty eyes widened promptly; her hands were shaking, she realized that the Witcher was awake and fully aware.

"Give me that." The Witcher demanded, looking straight into her eyes, giving her one chance.

It came as no surprise to him that the dumb Nordling bitch failed to heed. The dagger fell.

The Witcher acted quickly and grabbed at both the bitch's hands holding the dagger. He tightened his grip, and the Rat began groaning – her hands small and delicate—weak—just like the rest of her. Twenty-seven or so she was–or perhaps a bit younger (he did not care either way) a small, skinny, and ugly thing, not the first choice for a lay for anyone with actual coin to spend. Half-elves like her were usually pretty desirable, but she was anything but – if anything she looked just like a rat with her sharp, skinny face, small lips and nose, visible bucktooth, and pointy ears, furthermore she barely had any meat in her chest. He did not want her, and -judging by the fleeting looks she was giving him- she did not want him either, but since he did not have much coin with him after getting his gear fixed he was given her by the pimp, who noted spitefully that he didn't want any his best girls catching any diseases he might have. Varamyr wasn't happy at all with this arrangement, but since they've been months since his last lay, he obliged. He wasn't sure anymore why he even bothered with it initially, but he tried to be nice towards her when alone, asking her a few silly questions in an attempt to ease the mood and even offering her a bit of his stolen Est Est. Not only she did not answer any of his questions while maintaining a decidedly annoyed frown that did not flatter her already unflattering face but once the Witcher offered her the bottle of Est Est she unceremoniously grabbed it and drank most of it. That merely frustrated him, but her words later after turning around in all fours for the obvious purpose of not looking at him whilst fucking her were what triggered him: "Get on with it. I don't want to stay with you for even half-an-hour." she said, with so much contempt in her voice…

She was a cheap whore with even cheaper manners…

And so Varamyr, treated her equally cheaply.

He grabbed her roughly by the hair and yanked her back, then grabbed her neck with his spare hand and forced her on the wall to the right side of the room. "Don't you dare scream." He told the whore, in an unknown, terrible voice as lifted her up "Or you won't get out of here alive." He warned the bitch. She straggled to break free of his chokehold, to no avail – even as she stretched her arms full, her fingers could not even reach his face, she was like child compared to him "You are mine for the night." And with those final, hateful words the Witcher let her fall on the floor. He was not gentle with her. He slapped her, hard, later hit her, bit her, and kept on raping her, bloody, and violently, while pushing her face on the floor or the walls while throwing her around like a ragdoll, refusing to look fully at her face – for he knew that if he did, he'll stop.

In the end, he stopped when the whore eventually passed out after he almost choked her at one point. After a while he himself fell asleep.

Guess the little skank believed she deserved better than what she got from him. And for a heartbeat back there, Varamyr believed that too.

…But no more.

With an abrupt move, he yanked her closer after forcing her hands towards the left. Raising slightly from his lay-down position, the Witcher headbutted her.

The half-elf let out a pained groan. The Witcher took advantage of her disorientation to turn the positions around. He hit her with his right elbow, forced her on the floor, and turn to the left. He came on top of her, crushing her under his weight, still gripping tightly at her hands, forcing her fingers to open, the whore eventually let go of his dagger.

"HEEEEEEELPP!" the half-elf screamed. Varamyr put his right on her mouth to silence her, with his left he took hold of his dagger. He brought it closer to their faces.

The whore stopped wriggling as she took sight of the dagger.

"Warned you, didn't I?" the Witcher said through clenched teeth as he put the dagger to her ear, cutting it ever-so-slightly.

The half-elf closed her eyes tightly, she began tearing up.

Varamyr came closer to her "Want to know something funny?" he whispered to her left ear "I actually felt sorry for what I've done to you before. Thinking of leaving you the rest of my coin as compensation." With an abrupt move, he took the dagger away from the whore's ear, raising a bit above her as he did.

The whore opened her eyes.

"But now," the Witcher continued in a quiet voice as he threw the dagger a good distance away, his right hand was still on the half-elf's mouth "I think I deserve compensation, for this attempted murder." He stretched his spare arm and grabbed at the empty bottle of Est Est. As he brought it closer, he sniffed it, the whore's smells were still lingering to it, then he broke it on the wooden floor.

"You're the fucking ugliest half-elf I've ever laid my eyes upon." said Varamyr, baring his teeth from the left corner of his mouth. He brought the broken bottle to her face. "But after tonight, you would only ever find work again on a freak show."

 **\**

 **[- FOUR MONTHS AGO -]**

 **\**

 **Urick of Neunreuth**

"Hey, witchfucker!" barked the innkeeper from behind him.

The Witcher swore under his breath as he stopped walking while currying his sword and horse's saddlebags -the former from the straps to the right, the latter to the left over the shoulder- he tried to force a smile (-or something close enough to it) on his face before turning around. It proved difficult, very difficult.

"Whad de flying fucks ya doing?! I'm talking to ya?" the inkeep barked once again. Urick honestly began to wonder where he had all this energy stored as he was yelling all night yesterday, not to mention the fistfight he had with the three thuggish patrons.

 _"…In his belly obviously."_ thought Urick, now struggling not to laugh at the next image that popped to his head out of nowhere _"He obviously ate a djinn and was granted infinite stamina as a result."_ In the end he could not help it, he soundly choked out a laugh.

"Whad!? Did Fiona fucking gave ya yer illness? Keep where ya're freak!"

The Witcher was pretty pleased with that arrangement as he had absolutely no desire to feast his eyes upon the innkeeper's ugly face whatsoever. He walked on after readjusting his swords.

"HEY!" the cockheaded innkeeper's yell was accompanied by a loud smacking. "I'm fucking talking to ya, ya fuckard! Turn aroud now!"

Teeth were clenching behind Urick's tightly pursed lips.

Taking a deep breath through the nose, the Witcher finally turned. "Yes, what is it." he said.

The repulsive innkeep slammed his left hand on the counter, rocking the three mugs resting on top of it. "Don'd they say 'good mornin' whe 'ya come vrom!" the man's entire ugly face turned red, he looked ready to burst at any moment now. _Urick hoped this wholeheartedly._ "WHAD!" Alas, a fool's hope it proved. "Are ya vrom ploughing Kaedwen eh?!" _"Where that even came from?"_ "May Pigstra and de Red Cocks fuck ya all in yer arses, ya bloody whoresons all!"

Urick tried his best to answer, calmly and civilly "No sir. I'm definitely, not, from Kaedwen."

The innkeep slapped both his hands on the counter then, the backmost mug fell on the floor "Ya ain't lie ta me, eh?!" the inkeep raised a really suspicious eyebrow as he aggressively leaned forward, he completely ignored the mug–or perhaps he didn't notice it "Cause if ya one of dose uni-whored cunts den ged de 'ell outa me inn! RIGHT NOWS! I don'd want ya fucking money neither – How much did ya 'ave me, eh?"

Urick began losing patience. "Sir…" he began, struggling to keep his voice even.

"Tis Master for ya!" the innkeep slapped the counter again, harder than before "Now anzer me ya brigand! You a filthy uni-whored?! Eh?! EH?!"

The Witched was clenching his teeth as he uttered his next two words "No. Master." He pointed at his own face before continuing, a little more composed now "I think I'll be a little bit paler, have that been the case."

Once again, the innkeep slapped the counter, dropping the remaining mugs on the floor as well "Ya playing smarts wid me mutant?!"

 _"This is going nowhere."_ Urick's eyes narrowed as he realized that. He briefly considered telling the innkeep what he wanted to hear—that he hailed from Kaedwen—so as to at least leave this place with a heavier purse, but from what he saw of the man's temperament he could not really put confidence into his words. The whole thing reminded him a little of that troll couple that he encountered on that bridge in his way to Temeria that demanded toll for the maintenance of the bridge from the nearby towns… in the form of elven children. The Witcher could not help but cringe each time he remembered those 'lovebirds', even by the standards of trolls, Hindley and Brandy were truly twisted. Urick was never averse to harming or killing children himself, but even he, won't condemn one to such terrible fates like been boiled into a soup, baked into a pie, or eaten piece-by-piece whilst alive… so, with a little bit of cunning, he managed to kill them both. _He didn't have to, but he wanted to._

"What's dat face, ya fuckard!?"

Urick finally have enough of it, and since the place was empty "No, I'm not from Kaedwen. Get that thought out of your head, man. And talk no more of it." He commanded casting the Axii Sign.

The innkeep shook his head with a jerk "Fuck!" he clenched his teeth cursing, putting his left hand on his head.

"What the-?" The Witcher's eyes turned wide in astonishment.

"Fucking 'ell! Mere talking wid ya makes me head 'urt ya damn freak! Ya are fucking…" The innkeeper went on, completely clear-headed.

The Witcher's mouth went slightly agape as he kept staring glass-eyed, marveling at this cruel jest obviously orchestrated by fate/gods/devils, or whatever sadistic higher force was responsible for his continuous string of bad luck. As if yesterday night wasn't merely enough to sour his mood – further.

"…Now anzer me, ya brigand!" the innkeeper kept on yelling "You a uni-whored whore from Kaedwen?!"

The Witcher raised his voice as he gave his answer. "No."

"Ya ain't lying, eh?" the innkeep asked in a noticeably lower voice. That didn't last long, unfortunately. "Cause if ya breath smoke me ways, I'll chop ya tongue ad fed id to Flaffy!"

Urick's fingers tighten up on his sword's straps. Each yell, swear, threat the innkeeper uttered at his direction since yesterday was culminating in him losing his head a moment sooner.

For a few seconds, the witcher and the cock-headed innkeeper kept glaring at each other in silence – which was surprising given the latter's record. Despite harboring similar feelings though, there stares couldn't be more different. The innkeep wore a visibly angry scowl on his face, while the witcher seemed perfectly calm—even if he was anything but in reality—with his eyes only slightly narrow. Barring specific situations like yesterday night Urick—like most witchers, he guesses—avoided displaying emotions in general. He may have never completed his training proper since they throw him out of the Wyvern School, but from what he gathered from Dagread (the Wolf), Geatan (the Cat), and Ivo (the Bear) back at the Provinces, control over one's emotions during a fight was at the general core of witcher fighting doctrine, regardless of where they were made. As for outside of combat, Urick never reached this part of the training, so when they literally throw him on the Path, he didn't even know how he was supposed to act in his dealings with other people since he only really had Filia's tales of the world outside The Nest… _She told him of seas -both of water and of grain,- of long meadows, of flowers of many different colors (which she liked to pick), and wedding rituals of which entire villages always rejoiced in the bond between two people – eating, drinking and dancing till the night, or even till the next day…_ She never told him of the intolerance, greed, or pettiness of common folk, of their unwillingness to understand, and general apathy towards the ones they deemed cursed – The South had not shortage of these. But the North seems to have only these.

The innkeeper leaned backwards; the ugly scowl remained on his face but the furious red hue was gone.

The Witcher choose to take this as a good sign, so he calmly asked "Can I go now, Master?" "Cockhead." Urick internally added to the end of his sentence. And thus, he decided to baptize the innkeep.

"Aye, ya can." Cockhead answered "Avter ya pay."

"Excuse me?!" Urick demanded, grimacing and raising his voice as he had just payed up – almost twice what he had to!

"Vor de boddle ov Whide Wolv ya break last night – Dat boddle game straight vrom Two-sant – Was wordth an 'undred and twoses – And ya'll pay dat nows!"

Urick stood silent for a few seconds. Seriously contemplating to just straight out murder the shit out of the loud, fat, ugly, smelly, hairy and general-insult-to-all-senses-known-to-man-or-beast dickhead of an innkeeper and leave this shitty village for good.

Cockhead slammed a fist on the counter this time. "Whad de fucks ya standin dere ligue a 'ard prick, ya freak?! Ged 'ere and bay nows! Or I'm keeping yer 'orse!"

The Witcher walked towards the innkeep, his piercing eyes locked in a permanent wrathful gaze, each step he took was heavy with rage… Yet once in front of him, he put his sword down, letting it rest on the counter.

Reluctantly, Urick opened his satchel and reached for his purse, cursing on all the North and its inhabitants as he did. _"One oren is equal to one crown,"_ he recalled.

.

Urick found himself on the stables.

Hlaith was here, alone, slowly munching on hay, completely ignoring her 'master's' arrival, the cold wind not bothering her in the slightest.

"Yes, thank you very much, malady." The Witcher leaned by the wall to the right as he said that. Dissatisfied (for a variety of reasons), he folded his arms across his chest -as if in protest- after leaving the sword and saddlebags to the side, waiting for his steed to finish her meal.

After she was done with her 'dish', the mare moved on to water box.

 _"Life is for your kind, you damn equine."_ The Witcher frowned as he witnessed the black mare drinking, so calmly and patiently. She really seemed to be enjoying herself, or, at the very least, she was content with what she had available.

"Please, take your time." said the Witcher eventually, and turned. "I'm not going anywhere." He added spitefully with his back on the wall as he kept on waiting, arms still crossed to his chest, more tightly than before.

 _"…What the hell am I even doing here?"_ Urick asked himself internally, the question was clinging to his mind for days now. _"This fucking place is not worth a witcher's nut! Any place! Novigrad, Velen, Ysgith – all of them sodding hellholes – they could all burn!"_ the Witcher frowned _"What am I staying here for? Money? Fuck that!"_ his face twisted further as he thought that. It was true that, in comparison to the South, a witcher could find work fairly easy here. In each and every settlement he came by, Urick always found a contract on some monster that needed slaying (even if the monster was not always some type of feral beast.) That was the bright side… The dark, as he came to understand, was that more job opportunities don't amount to more profits here. In Empire-controlled lands, the reward was either written on the notice and was set, or a sum was agreed beforehand – no haggling or takebacks. In the Northern Realms however, folk were disturbingly prone into taking back on their word, the only thing they seemed to need—or, more funnily, want—was an excuse to do so – as if the idea of blatantly cheating someone of his hard-earned money didn't sit well with them without one. _They wanted an excuse!_ So, by the end of the day, hunting monsters here was even more unprofitable and risky than it was in Nilfgaard territory. _"The women? Fuck them too. In the ass! Preferably with a sword!"_ the Witcher choked out a laugh. He had heard the rumors back home, of how northern women bathe but once every three nights, which he dismissed back then as nothing more than calumny… but the truth was that they did smell worse… whether they've been sex workers, or barmaids, or mere village women. Urick's enhanced sense of smell wasn't probably helping, and won't go so far as to say that they reeked, but in comparison to southern women unpleasant smells -like stale alcohol or regular sweat, fisstech, and even excrement once- tend to linger to their bodies for longer, proving that they did in fact bathe less. And as if that was not bad enough, they were all so obnoxious – even the whores were obnoxious, saying stupid and even insulting shit like '"Fancy a fuck?"', '"Hey, ugly."', or '"Is there any lust left in your freakish heart?"' in those annoyingly high-pitched (and utterly fake) voices _"Nordling men obviously have veeery low standards."_ thinking that, the Witcher nodded, in an exaggeratedly scornful manner. The worse part was when they dropped the act, for when the bitches decided to show their true colors it is almost surprising how their clients don't seek them out during nighttime to 'teach them some respect' of the kind typical to these barbarous lands, as their nerve was quite something to behold, some of them were even openly racist, and even have the audacity to demand for more coin after effectively insulting their clients to their faces, and some even refused their services to Nonhumans _(like him)_ altogether, on the grounds of 'whores have their principles too' as one put it. Urick only have those in Novigrad as his main example, but his gut was just telling him that this was the case with whores in all of the North, he had never really been popular with the ladies back home either -and some whores weren't exactly enthusiastic about spending time with him – at least initially, their attitudes after the deed was done varied greatly- but almost none of them was so blatantly hostile. _"The foods? Monster meat seems tastier with every dish I order here!"_ thinking about food made the Witcher frown again – it also reminded him that he hadn't eat breakfast… but perhaps that was fortunate since Fiona was sick at her home. He doubted that Cockhead could actually cook, but even if he does, Urick won't let anything that man makes with those fat, greasy, dirty hands of his into his mouth. He was not that desperate yet.

The black mare's low neigh announced that she finally finished.

Without breaking his posture, the Witcher looked at her with the corner of his right eye. The mare's head was his way, she was looking back at him.

"You're done, malady?" asked the Witcher in Elder Speech as he turned his head right, a fake smile on his face, his voice down.

The black mare neighed and moved her head -up and down- in further confirmation.

"Enjoy the food any?"

Snorting, Hlaith moved her head slightly to confirm her denial.

"Yeah, me neither…" saying that, Urick's fake smile melted, he turned his head again, facing back forward. "I hate this place Hlaith." He said, keeping his voice low.

The black mare neighed lowly.

"Why we came here you ask?"

Before he continued, Hlaith let out loud neigh that seemed to indicate displeasure.

"Okay – Why I brought us here, you ask?"

Hlaith neighed.

"Well, I thought I needed a change of scenery."

Hearing that the mare let out a prolonged neigh that was immediately followed by a loud snort.

"Yes well," the Witcher turned to the mare "I did not exactly expect to find that this place will be…" Urick clenched his teeth as he struggle to find the best possible words to accurately describe the Northern Realms – the wording: 'whorehouse on fire' kept popping up in his head "…in such a… extensive state of, degeneration." He said in the end.

The black mare kept silent as she stared.

"What?" Urick frowned. Dropping his arms, he moved away from the wall and turned to the mare. "How the hell was I supposed to know it will be like this – smell my toes?!" the Witcher raised his voice, but not too much, his accent slipped a bit though…

He decided to take a look behind him.

To his good fortune there was no one close enough to hear him. The peasants he saw were occupied with their morning routines a good distance away from the inn.

Hlaith's low neigh prompt him to turn back at her. "We can never be too careful with these barbarians." The Witcher whispered.

The mare neighed in response.

"They make the Gemmerians back home look like civil and…"

Urick let slowly sink in… just how bad the people of these lands must be… if he begins to find the Empire's groundbreaking raze-boars to be nicer than the average peasant here…

Hailth's neigh softly, drawing the Witcher's attention. The mare moved her head, in manner that seemed questioning to him.

"Yes. She. Was from there." Urick began "So what?" he crossed his arms again as he raised an eyebrow, smiling just barely "You would be mistaken to think that Her special treatment of you was indicative of every Gemmerian there is – You've never been there. They're harsh, wild folk these, malady."

The mare neighed and began waggling her tail expressively.

"Ah, you think so?" Urick smiled nastily at the mare "Yes, they'll probably treat you better than me." He said "But I'll be careful if I were you, malady. Gemmerans are a wayward lot. They either hug you, punch you, fuck you, or kill you – in random combinations of two sometimes, though the last three they tend to combine the most in that precise order when they go on about it. Ever hear the saying: 'To play in the Gemmerian way'?"

The mare shook her head with a jerk and snorted.

"Yeah… I guess you wouldn't care about this, being a horse." After saying that, the Witcher purse his lips and grimaced. Remembering the Imperial army's atrocities during their expansion wars always seemed to be leaving a bad taste afterwards despite the years. Witnessing the conquest of both Ebbing and Gheso -especially the latter more brutal one, since he had encountered a lot of obstacles trying to get out of the country and was forced to see a lot- was—for a lack of a better word—an eye-opener to warfare. The School of the Wyvern never educated him (or the rest of the Wyvern prospects, he guesses) in war history as it was not related to monster hunting in any way, so most of his knowledge in regards to it came from Velmelianna's occasional exposition, which was situational, and—much to her annoyance—he mostly payed no great mind to as he did not really care about history or war and generally focused on the parts of the story that were useful at the moment. Hearing and reading about something weren't the same as seeing and experiencing it, the Witcher came to realize with time. He did not really care about the peoples' suffering of course, since no matter where he went folk always treated him as if he had the plague -a priest in Maecht even called him plague-bearer once, and even incited the people against him- but the razing of huts, fields and villages, the indiscriminate killings, and rapes of girls and women were all admittedly unpleasant to his senses. And when Gemmerians were involved, those unpleasant things always took a turn for the worse – like in the Second Northern War, where they were pretty much given the freedom to indulge in their excesses with impunity.

"But," the Witcher went on "if you think that means you would be safe from harm, guess again, malady. Ever heard of Alphonsia, the black beauty of battle?" He paused for a moment -to build tension- before he continued, flashing an ambiguous smile.

The mare neighed as she moved her head quizzingly.

"Well, of course you haven't – You were still in your mama's belly then. So, allow me to tell you. Of the glorious equine heroine that became the shinning paragon of all Nilfgaardian war-mounts."

The mare let out a piercing neigh and snorted loudly.

"I knew you would be interested. So… Alphonsia was born in the stables of the noble house of Tearwurr of Gemmeria – Yes, even they have their own important families, though do not think they're anything like those of Etolia or Ebbing, there, if the descendants of a 'noble house' aren't as good at cracking skulls as their ancestors were, they don't retain their titles for long. Anyway, the Tearwurrs were renown mounted warriors -both admired, and feared – mostly feared- even today, with horsemen from Ebbing and Mettina significantly bolstering cavalry, warriors from this clan still form the spearhead of most mounted units, including the Skullheads, the Seventh Daerlanian Cavalry Brigade, and funnily enough, the Second Vicovaro Brigade."

Hlaith moved her head slightly upwards and then back as she neighed.

"Why is it funny?" laughed the Witcher "Well, you see, while everyone back home hates the Gemmerians, Vicovarians in particular… really, fucking, hate them… I am guessing it must feel a bit awkward to have the same people that spearheaded during the invasion of your own country to rape, loot and burn it three times over now leading a brigade baring its name into battle instead of someone native. It's a matter of national pride." At this moment the Witcher paused, and began looking around.

"Vicovarians are like that." whispered the Witcher after making sure nobody was/or came closer, then, he turned back to the mare.

"Hm…" Urick lowered his head, for a fraction of a second the left corner of his mouth rose, forming a half-smile before he raised his head again and go back to his usual expression. It was a reflex for the most part, but Urick could not help but feel strange speaking—even in such low a volume—Elder for so long after spending months speaking the Nordling tongue, straining constantly not to give away his origins and earn their ire – not that they needed much help "Is this what they call… feeling homesick?" he wondered… and frowned. If 'homesickness' was what he was feeling just now, he did not like it in the slightest. Boarding the ship to Novigrad, Urick flipped the bird towards Nilfgaard _– All of Nilfgaard: It's provinces, its vassals, it's peoples, it's mages, it's everything! as he vowed to make a better life here, and now he began missing all of it?! a little less than a month?!_

Hlaith's neighed, drawing his attention.

"About Alphonsia?" The Witcher got angry, he glared at the mare "Long story short – she lost in the Annual Riding Tournament to a Metinessi pony and her highborn twat of a rider chopped off her head with his big fucking sword! Then fed her carcass to his hounds! The moral of the damn story: We are expendable! As long as we are useful to our masters, they'll treat us fine but the moment we are not, they'll cast us away like trash! So, you better don't play smarts with me you fucking beast or you'll met Alphonsia's fate – in sone isolated grass field instead of a-…" Eventually, Urick fell quiet at his mare's silent treatment – she did not neigh or made any sudden movements. She just stared, completely unfazed by his outburst.

The Witcher lowered his head again. _"Velmelianna named her aptly."_ he thought as he turned around.

Taking two steps forward he stopped between the two wooden beams that formed the stable's entrance, his hands tightly clenched into fists. He wanted to hit something–someone.

"Look what have we here lads." A familiar, unpleasant voice echoed through the Witcher's ears, prompting him to raise his eyes. The corners of his mouth rose slightly as he saw to whom it belonged to: the lout with the horseshoe mustache from yesterday night, now sporting a black eye, his pals -No-nose and Baldy- flanking him as he approached, their faces might as well screamed trouble. And right about now, it was welcome.

Once they came close enough, the three thugs stopped approximately six paces away from the stable and the Witcher. Urick examined them. They did not appear to carry any visible weapons.

"Leaving zo zoon Witcha?" asked Baldy eyeing the sword and saddlebags. As he spoke, Urick noticed that a few of his teeth were missing.

The Witcher did not answer, he just stared at them, his smile growing wider.

"Why ya smiling for shiteface?!" brusquely asked No-nose. He seemed willing to say more, but before he had the chance, Baldy spoke "Ain't it obvious Rimer? Cocksucker's eager to blow Bogumil." Baldy laughed, No-nose followed suite in his mirth.

Urick said nothing, he merely tilted his head forward.

"You hear the lads." Horseshoe spoke, his tone nasty and threatening despite the black eye he received "Seems you promised to suck my cock yesterday, bitchboy." After saying that, Horseshoe put his hands behind his belt, obviously reaching for something.

Urick stopped smiling then and straighten his posture.

To the Witcher's surprise, as he expected some sort of knife, what Horseshoe was reaching out to turned out to be a pair of brass knuckles. "But I ain't like that sharp pair of yours." Horseshoe said as he put the left knuckle on "So I'm goin to punch 'em outta ya mouth." And with that, he put the right one on.

"Punch all 'is damn teeth out Bogumil!" No-nose suddenly yelled.

"Ease now, Rimer." Horseshoe said to his companion "When I am done with 'im," the thug smiled maliciously then "even you would look pretty." Hearing his friend's declaration, No-nose flashed a nasty grin at the Witcher's direction while Baldy, with his hands on his 'waist', merely cackled.

Horseshoe took two steps forward. "Come on freak." he assumed a 'fighting position' as he challenged, he smiled "Uncle Bogumil will make a man outta ya."

 _ **"I'll make a man, out of you."**_ Urick's heart skipped a beat as Zarek's deep, growling voice echoed through his ears. For a minute there, where the thug stood, he saw him. A chill went down his spine as he once again witnessed the Pale Wyvern's face and form: his pale skin, his long milk-white hair along with his neatly trimmed beard, the scar resembling a thunderbolt -the only scar he ever saw in him- that run down, crossing over his eye from the left side of his face, his thin nose, his wide mouth, fleshy lips, and his eyes… those shining soulless slitted eyes… he was smiling still… _He still towers over me! I can still feel his hand–No! Stop! Please, I beg you, I'll do it! Just stop!_

 _ **"Again."**_

 _ **"No tears now."**_

 _ **"Kill it."**_

 _"I'm sorry…"_

 _ **"Never apologize."**_

 _ **"She grows nicely, ain't she?"**_

"I'm sorry…"

 _ **"Do it…"**_

 _"… Filia… I am sorry… I… didn't meant to…"_

Urick felt a sudden hammering pain on his face.

* * *

 **The Wyvern Witcher – Codex**

 **Bonus story:** **The angel with membranous wings**

 **-Our better natures - part 1-**

* * *

Despite being a relative distance away, the music and general merriment of the after-wedding celebrations were still fairly audible to him. Much to his ire.

He was laying down on the grassy hillside with his hands behind his head, looking up the night-sky with an ugly frown across his face.

He did not like at all how few clouds were up there.

 _He wished there be more._

 _He wished for a heavy storm to suddenly break and ruin the whole damned feast and for a lightning bolt to struck that long-eared son-of-a-bitch!_

 _. . ._

The Witcher clenched his teeth in anger as he raised. Putting his right arm on his knee, he groaned, then he stood up.

He walked up the hill towards the willow tree that was resting near the top. Leaning to it, he folded his arms tightly across his chest and looked downwards.

He remained like that for some time before finally raising his head to ask himself the obvious question for the third time today "Why have I even come?" And once again he found no answer that felt satisfying enough.

. . .

As his anger subsided over time, Urick let out a sigh. Not long after, he reached to the silver medallion around his neck with his right hand and pulled it out.

Staring down at the silver emblem that was shaped in the likeness of a snarling forktail's head he couldn't help himself recalling its original owner's parting words **_"You thought, that you'll be free, if you just left the Nest. Stupid boy. It'll always be part of you."_ **Dagda told him before he died, wearing that exact same smile he always donned during unarmed combat training, where he took any chance he could, to get both him, and Elrik (and pretty much anyone he did not personally liked) beaten bloody…

Urick never expected that merely a portion of a long-dreamed vengeance, that over the years he came to believe would never come, could feel so much like a defeat. For before that day, every time he took vengeance at someone who wronged him felt good – _For they died exactly like the trash they really were!_ scared, despairing, begging, and pleading. Urick always took at least some pleasure from witnessing his 'victims' last pitiful moments…

And yet, when the moment for such a guilty pleasure was most appropriate to indulge upon, it did not feel as it should.

"… Grr." The Witcher's teeth clenched, his grip on the medallion began to tighten as he thought back at what he expected–no, hoped to be a turning point towards a better future in his life.

 _It wasn't._

 _Not even close._

 _For instead of dying like the trash that he was and looked after their 'fight' was done, that son-of-a-bitch Dagda instead mocked him with philosophical bullshit as he laid dying, smiling through bloodied teeth. He had been stabbed in the groin, his left arm was hacked off, his very own siderite sword was plunged deep into his gut, and yet the bastard refused to be the victim till his very last breath!_

The Witcher's fingers began to bleed at the sharp edges of the scalped emblem. Suddenly feeling as if the chain around his neck was burning, he took the medallion off and ran down the cliff, his heart beating fast.

He stood close by the river, clenching the medallion's emblem, very tightly, in his right hand.

After a while, he raised the bloodied fist and opened it, taking a good final look at the draconic emblem that for years he believed was meant to mark his transcendence from boyhood to manhood and therefore freedom -for him, and Filia both- but instead served as a cruel reminder of all his pains, his fears, his failures and all the broken promises that he and those few men that he so foolishly thought he could trust gave before spat on it and throw it in the river.

"FUCK YOUUUUU!" the Witcher cursed loudly as he saw the accursed relic plop into the water, hoping that the river's strong currents will eventually lead it to the noxious swamplands of Ebbing.

Not long after he retained some of his composure, Urick let out short giggle. Then another, longer one. Then he laughed.

When he was done, he stood where he was with his held low.

. . .

Eventually, Urick found the strength of will needed to return. He turned around, still looking down. After taking three steps forward, the Witcher sighed, heavily, then raised his head up…

He immediately froze in place with eyes wide as he spotted Loreil sitting down by the willow tree, bending forward with her arms wrapped around her legs, looking down at him from the high ground with sullen face.

The Witcher hid his bloodied hand behind his back as he looked away. Were they be human, it would've been impossible to even spot each other at this hour and distance, let alone make out each other's facial expressions. But neither of them was. And he could make out her expression, and felt absolutely terrible about it.

After an uncertain amount of time passed, Urick found the courage to walk up the cliff and, at the very least, attempt to speak to her. Even if he could not face her. He berated himself internally for his cowardice.

 _"What a night…"_ he sighed once again—even more heavily than before—and resumed walking, slowly, towards her.

As he went, he felt his minor would sting all of a sudden. Putting his hands behind his back discreetly, he pulled both of his sleeves down to better hide the blood.

He stopped approximately four paces away from the willow tree and from her.

He raised his head then to look at her. Since he was standing at the steeper side of the slope, their eyes were at equal levels.

She kept on sulk for a few quiet seconds when she suddenly blinked. It might have just been his imagination, but from his limited experience Urick came to understand that where women were concerned it is better to pay more attention on what they say with their bodies instead of with their words. Mel said the opposite of what she really meant often, but her body often betrayed the truth in some manner… But then again, Velmelianna was one-of-a-kind.

"You know Witcher," at the "Witcher", Urick immediately knew just how badly he fucked up back at the wedding feast "I was actually planning for us to 'end up' in here later on."

"I am guessing this a favorite place for young couples to make out?" the left corner of the Witcher's mouth raised slightly when he asked. He kind of have taken the hint when he first came here and found a young couple making it out here, close by the river. The younglings were loud, and since Urick was both quite angry and envious at the time and wanted to brood in silence, they almost took the full blunt of his frustrations.

"Indeed, it is." Answered she "Or was, since that drowner attack two weeks ago had changed that… Until recently, that is, of course."

"Yes, you are welcome…" the Witcher drifted as he thought back at that contract. Considering the location, along with the target and money proffered for each head, he could not help but inquire "Did the reward money came from your reserves perchance Loreil?" It wouldn't be the first time if that was the case. Besides her healing skills, Loreil regularly provided economic help to the people of Haela, and even the other settlements nearby.

Instead of straight up answering, the healer merely smiled, there was an almost mischievous glee in her large eyes. The Witcher liked what he saw, for unlike Mel, Loreil rarely ever engaged in mischief or playfulness of any kind, despite her youth… Well, at least she seemed to be younger to him in her elven form, as far as external appearances went. Urick may not know how old Loreil was exactly, but he guessed that, at the very least, she must have been young for an alp as even in her true form her skin remained rather smooth-looking and her facial features weren't as pronounced and monstrous like most of her strain, she was also rather short – in both her forms -she only seemed to grow an inch or so taller when transforming- and, while just as sharp as any vampire's, her claws were also much shorter when compared to the likes of the Phantom of Rowan or that pair of bruxae that he and Velmelianna have fought in the Van Moorlehem Wood back in Nilfgaard territory.

"Well…" the healer smiled (a bit forcefully) as she pointed towards the riverside with a tilt of her head "An old, abandoned sawmill with a reputation of being haunted is…" her voice mellowed considerably from this point forward "hardly the right place for young love to flourish." Her eyes moved to look at the Witcher, before she turned her whole head at his direction again. As she uttered her final words, Loreil's voice took a soft, almost melodious tone that seemed more appropriate for a nymph than a vampiress. "Don't you think so too, Urick?"

Encouraged by the calling of his name, the Witcher successfully pulled out an honest enough smile. The healer responded in kind – though it was clear that hers was the more honest. He may not have agreed wholeheartedly with her personal interpretation of what constituted as 'love', as, at times, he just felt that she was putting too much faith in the romantic version of it, but he could not help himself admire her innocence…

 _"No matter where it comes from, this world could definitely use more innocence… It does not need any more monsters… It doesn't need more like me."_ The Witcher averted his eyes, he looked downwards, slightly to the left. He knew what this feeling was: guilt. Letting out a long, heavy sigh, he raised his head and said "Sorry for embarrassing you."

It was the healer's turn to avert her eyes now, she giggled before that.

"Are you still mad at me?" Urick asked. Rhetorically of course. He knew the answer.

"More like, disappointed. At you." She said with smile that expressed only sadness. Facing right, she looked at him from the corner of her eye before turning "Why you left like that?"

Tilting his head down, Urick pursed his lips together and inhaled. He struggled to find the right words to explain "I…" he paused before even starting, he looked away again.

After a few seconds, Urick decided that honesty was probably the best possible course of action "I. Got jealous." He finally answered, still looking away, trying very hard not to grimace.

Loreil's silence was all the Witcher needed to understand that, once again, he fucked up.

"Of whom?"

Hearing that Urick immediately turn his head with a jerk "Huh?!" he did not bother trying to look composed this time around.

The alp was regarding him with a cold, stony gaze the effect of which was reinforced by her blood-red eyes, making her look quite intimidating… But not nearly enough. "Care to repeat?!" the Witcher demanded, harshly.

The alp stood and leaned back at the tree, her hands behind her back. "Of whom?" she repeated with a voice as even as the first time she said it, looking down at him, her eyes still cold.

Urick's eyes began to narrow "Not funny Loreil." he said and took a step up the hill.

"Not funny?" she asked frowning.

"Yes–I mean NO! – No, it's not funny! – What do even mean by: "Of whom?""

"Of whom you are jealous of? There quite a few people back there that you have every right to be."

Heaving enough of this malapert attitude of hers, the Witcher snaped. He rushed up to where the alp was.

Standing in front of her, he smacked the tree as he leaned forward, looking down at her with an angry expression.

Not even for a second had the vampiress flinched. She was looking up, staring directly into the Witcher's eyes without breaking posture. Despite how he towered over her and how dangerously close he was, she was not at all intimidated – her heartbeat was steady and her eyes were full of defiance.

 _"Don't you fucking look at me!"_ Urick struggled to keep his spare, trembling hand closed into a fist as he kept suppressing the urge _to just grab her by the neck and smash her head against the fucking tree till her skull cracked if she kept giving him that look!_

"YOUR ARM!"


End file.
